Eclipse
by Adamantwrites
Summary: After the war, Adam finds his civilian life as chaotic as wartime. Will all that occurs eclipse any happiness or will he again find joy in living?
1. Chapter 1

_**All recognizable settings and characters are the property of their respective owners. Original plots and characters are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.**_

 **Eclipse**

 **Asher**

After the war, I considered not returning to the Ponderosa; the world had turned upside down—at least my world had—and I no longer knew where I belonged. But I didn't belong anywhere else so I returned home and found that except for a few families suffering the loss of a son or a cousin or a husband, things in Virginia City were basically the same. And at home, my father had gotten a bit grayer, my brother Hoss, a bit heavier and Joe, a bit more confident in his abilities. I slid back into my position in my family, almost as if I was playing a part; life is odd that way. Often times we just slip into a role and play it to perfection.

And soon after I was home, I fell in love with a beautiful, young woman, married her, bedded her, and a year later had a son. I named him Asher after a captain under whom I served, Captain Bracewell Asher. He was brave and noble and always led the charge into the field. One rainy day, he fell on the battlefield and during the retreat, I dragged him back with me, firing wildly at the enemy the whole time. Once we were behind the lines, I tried to stay the bleeding until a medic could treat him but he died in my arms as we sat in the mud that became scarlet with his blood. And of all the deaths during the war, his affected me the most as he clasped my arm and thanked me. He had been a great man. After his death, I was elected captain by the men—what they call a brevet rank. No pay increase but all the responsibility. Being captain, shouldering the responsibilities, made me admire him even more and deeper mourn his loss.

Two years after our marriage. my wife died and although I was heartbroken, it seemed as if I had developed callouses from all the carnage during the war and couldn't be hurt to an extreme degree. I could only feel so much pain and no more, but the impenetrable darkness that had fallen on me during the last years of the war descended again. After a while, I failed to notice the veil that had fallen over my eyes and turned the world gray. But life never remains the same—whether that's good or bad depends on where you are, I suppose.

I was a widower and Mrs. Chandler a widow. She had already seen me at my lowest point, so I suppose that's why Mrs. Chandler accepted my marriage proposal—that and the fact that since her husband had died, she had struggled. Although I don't remember her ever complaining but I had overheard the women in church talking about her endurance and selfless suffering.

Mrs. Chandler's husband, Clifton, was a farmer—at least he tried to be. But he had bought a few acres that grew nothing but scrub brush. He had bought it during the rainy season when water flowed but come summer, there was nothing but dust and dirt. I would imagine that Mrs. Chandler often beat a scorpion with her broom and brushed spiders out of her house where she crushed them under her heel.

Clifton had returned to Virginia City a few months before me. One night he came down with a bloody flux and the doctor worried about cholera. Since there was a stagnant pond on their property after the rains, it was possible. The people of Virginia City reasoned along the same lines and no one would visit to bring a dish to help out as was common among neighbors. Nevertheless, if it was cholera, Mrs. Chandler never fell to it and after Clifton quickly died, he was just as quickly buried under his own infertile ground. Mrs. Chandler moved into town and soon became a common sight as she delivered needlework goods, dresses with flounces and hand-tatted lace, to patrons of her little shop in the front of the small house she leased at the edge of town.

So since my wife had died three years earlier and with a 5-year-old son on my hands, I found I couldn't raise him alone; I don't know how my father had accomplished it, raising me from an infant to my son's age without a wife to help. He claims he always found help in a kindly landlady or a woman who would watch me while he worked, but he admitted that there had been times when I was older that he had to leave me alone in a rented room and trust I had sense enough to mind him not to light a fire in the oven or open the door to anyone but him.

"Adam," my father said the night I told him that I had proposed to Mrs. Chandler, "she's a lovely woman—quite lovely and I have to admit I've admired her myself and questioned why she was still unmarried, but are you sure this is what you want? That she's what you want?"

"Yes. I'm sure. I had thought about it many times before I even started courting her."

"Is this just because of Asher? Do you think he needs a mother?"

"Yes. And I…" I chuckled, not out of amusement but from discomfort, and my father looked at me, puzzled. "Well, Pa, I don't want to be alone the rest of my life and I'm tired of an empty bed." He started to protest, to tell me that he understood but that needing a woman to relieve my needs was a poor reason but I never gave him a chance. I put up my hand. "I know, Pa, I know. You're unmarried, have been since Joe was young, and get by fine. But we're all grown—you're not responsible for us-and you have Hop Sing to cook and keep house and you have us—Joe and his family, Hoss and his and now Ash and me. And if you find the need of a woman…" My father looked uncomfortable as we both knew who he sought when his blood heated, so I dropped that argument. "Pa, I want a family and home of my own—for Asher and me to move out to our own house again, and since…"

I stopped. I still couldn't talk about my wife's death even after three years. Asher had caught measles—an epidemic had hit Virginia City and Doc Martin was run ragged tending to the sick; the whole town was quarantined with signs at the edges of town warning people not to enter and Sheriff Coffee and Clem Foster, his deputy did their best to prevent those who were terrified of disease from leaving. Asher, who was almost two at the time, recovered relatively quickly. Except for the identifying red spots, within a week my son was his laughing, alert self. But then my wife who had cared for her sick son came down with it and died of a raging fever within another week. I don't know how things like that happen. Pa says it's God's will but if it is, I'm tempted to tell Him to kiss my ass.

"Adam, you have all of us to help you in raising Asher. Millie's volunteered to raise him with their two boys if you need a break for a few months or even longer. And Hoss is a great father—not to say you're not a good father…"

I stood up then. "Pa, I'm marrying Mrs. Chandler. I asked her and she accepted. We agreed on a small wedding next Friday, here if it's all right, with just you and the family. All's settled between the two of us." And I went upstairs. Only Asher and I slept upstairs. Pa had trouble negotiating the stairs; his back had gotten so bad that he used a cane to get about and so slept in the downstairs bedroom. Every time I looked at my father, I saw myself in another 25 years. Except I would be alone but for a son who would, I was sure, want nothing to do with me. Pa was wrong; I wasn't a good father and every day, I made one mistake after another. But I hoped, with Mrs. Chandler's help, my son could be salvaged from my inept parenting.

Oh, I was a wonderful uncle, indulgent and caring and Joe's daughter, Bethy, was my love. But when it came to Asher, I seemed to have no patience. Maybe I expected more from him, held him to higher standards or maybe, and I am ashamed to say this, I felt resentment toward my son. It was while my wife was nursing him through the measles that she caught it and soon died—but I think I told you that. It wasn't Asher's fault, I know, but I missed my wife so much at that point that I only felt half alive. I do love Asher and I tried to be patient and good but he knew—he felt my indifference. I don't know how my father could have loved me—I killed my mother by being born. One life for another. It seems a fair trade but it's not; life's scales can't be balanced that way.

And Mrs. Chandler, having no children of her own, embraced the idea of a child, even if it was my son who tended to sulk and pout and demand his own way. My father said it's because I give in to my son too much, don't make him mind, but he is a boy without a mother. But Mrs. Chandler could coax Asher out of a bad mood. One Sunday afternoon, the day being bright and full of spring's promise, my son helped her in her small kitchen, standing on a chair and cutting star-shapes out of rolled cookie dough with a metal form. I sat in her parlor—neat and tidy and bearing no marks of a man's former presence-and listened to their chatter and Asher's giggle and my heart rested. It was that day I decided that perhaps Mrs. Chandler would make a good mother for Asher; she may have had nothing in common with me except that her husband had also fought in the war, have had nothing to say to me, couldn't even bring herself to call me by my Christian name, but she seemed to love my son and he loved her and that, I was sure, was what both he and I needed. If Mrs. Chandler needed more, she didn't say.

So that night after I told my father about my upcoming marriage, I lay on my bed trying to sleep but I couldn't. I'd drop off but within an hour I was awake again, wondering if I had made a mistake asking Mrs. Chandler to marry me. We didn't love each other but then I wasn't looking for love anymore. I had never even kissed her except for the peck on the cheek when she accepted my awkward proposal; I felt a kiss was called for on such an occasion—a requirement. And even then she had dropped her eyes and looked down. I sensed she was afraid for some reason and I found that her reticence provoked a desire to overwhelm her, to show my dominance through sexual subjugation but I held myself in check; I couldn't understand this newly aroused yearning. Mrs. Chandler had every right to be to be afraid, both of me and her situation—she had conceded to marry me and by doing so, she was joining her fate with mine and it was an unsure fate at that. She had no idea what lay ahead.


	2. Chapter 2

**I apologize for the lengthy exposition (and I know the exposition is the most boring part!) but if things pan out as planned-although they rarely do-all this background info is necessary.**

 **The Deaths-Part I**

I was having a long-running feud with a certain Mr. Harry Baxter, a questionable partner of mine who bought out my original partner, the bank manager of the Virginia City Trust, Reese Murray. But wait—it's more convoluted than you can imagine.

Murray had approached me about a deal on buying shares in the mine—showed up one evening at my house. It seems papers had come through his office that a silver mine was being put up for auction for unpaid taxes; the original owner had died or abandoned it—no one knew. I investigated and it seemed a good business deal; there were many rich silver veins within but they were difficult to reach without the manpower and the money. Still, with all the innovations in mining, owning the property could turn out lucrative. So Murray and I picked it up for next to nothing and split shares in the silver mine near Carson City; I held 45% of the shares and supplied the lumber for new timbering, the machinery such as the pump, and moved some of the miners from the Ponderosa's three operating mines to our new mine; I paid them from my own accounts. Murray held 40% and an investor from San Francisco, an acquaintance of Murray's—or so he said-held 15%. Originally, as I said, it appeared a good investment as silver ore was now in high demand by the government for the treasury. We were making a profit, a large profit, but after a year, it didn't produce as much silver as originally predicted by the engineer Murray had hired. The engineer, Stanley Payton, came with letters; I had confirmed one of them from a vague acquaintance of mine, a man I had met in San Francisco a few years ago-a successful speculator—and so I took the engineer at his professional word—to a degree.

I had discussed it with Hoss. I had developed great respect for my younger brother's opinion on such things. He wasn't as cunning as I, it's not in his nature to be devious, and that's why I trusted him. He thought that the wealth that lay in the mine would be worth the money and manpower. You see, during my absence, Hoss had grown immensely—in both character and girth. Other than the books and payroll which my father had managed during my absence, Hoss had taken on most of the day to day activities, the mining and the timber mill although he was more than happy to return the responsibilities to me. He became very knowledgeable about such things but he still didn't enjoy handling contracts.

Joe had been in charge of the cattle, something he detested. I took it back on when I returned, but after I became a widower, he took over again; I think it was his way of relieving my burden. Joe was actually good at it- knew that round-ups and cattle drives still needed to be accomplished, although now that federal money was being poured into extending the railroad, he was eager for what was called cattle cars to move the beeves to San Francisco, Abilene, Chicago and St. Louis. And one night, as we sat at dinner, he told about the news he had read in _The Sacramento Bee._ I had read it as well but kept quiet, listening as if it actually was news.

"And, Adam," Joe, who was having dinner with us, said, "I read that in about another year or two, we won't have to make those long drives. Just think of it. No more eating dust and sleeping on the ground and smelling nothing but stinkin' cow sh..." Joe stopped himself, glancing at my son.

Asher was fiddling with his food, the polished, heavy silverware too big for his small hands—he basically stabbed at his food with his fork. He looked up at his uncle Joe whom he adored and asked, "What stinks?"

Joe just giggled and smiled at me. "Should I tell him?" Pa only looked down the length of the table at me.

I sighed. I hated when things like this came up. What do I tell a 5-year-old? Do I lie and have him later think that I was always less than honest with him? Or do I just teach him with brutal honesty that life is full of filth and hate and death and lust—and shame? Sometimes I thought it would be better if he knew what to expect but I couldn't tell him what Joe was saying. Knowing Asher, he'd go about the house using the word, "shit" just to get a reaction from me.

"The cows stink because they don't have baths. That's why you have to take baths, so you don't stink and smell like a cow."

"Oh," he said and went back to pushing the peas about on his plate.

My father subtly nodded his approval at my answer. I didn't need to know that I had given an acceptable answer—but it helped.

But back to the mine; it was a month before the measles epidemic struck that the silver vein had gone dry and Reese Murray had died in a cave-in. What he had been doing in the mine, I didn't know, but apparently, from what I had gathered, Reese was personally checking the silver veins and must have inadvertently caused the cave-in. I found it odd that a simple banker who seemed to know little about mining, would go alone into a mine—but from what came out afterwards, I can understand his desperation to have the mine again produce. But having no experience, it wasn't odd that he caused his own death, being half-buried under tons of rock. Nevertheless, the body couldn't be recovered and all we had to go on was the word of two men heading to Carson City; they said they had paused nearby to eat their noon meal and swore they saw him go in and then, after a time, heard the rumble of the collapsing rock walls and the belch of dust and dirt.

After Reese Murray was crushed to death, it came to light that Reese had embezzled the money to purchase his shares. The bank demanded Mrs. Murray repay the bank to avoid prosecution since she had benefited from the crime. She should, the bank's lawyers advised, sell her shares in the mine, and if not that, her home and all she owned. Mrs. Murray couldn't afford a lawyer to represent her and I refused—despite her coming to me and asking-to go to the bank and put up the money until she could raise it. It wasn't an easy decision. But it seemed luck was with her. A man by the name of Harry Baxter heard about the mine and wrote Murray's widow a check to buy the dead man's 40% shares and since the mine would now require all the rocks and rubble removed—hours of manpower-and new timbering, I couldn't understand how Baxter was able to find some questionable people in San Francisco as backers in the mine; after all, why would they want it? And the mine was a loss unless they paid for excavation and new shoring. The whole thing seemed odd to me so I had been writing letters and sending wires attempting to find out who the investors were and why they would want shares in an apparently worthless mine. But together with Baxter, they owned the majority of the shares and I was outvoted by proxy at every turn. No one touched the mine and if could have found someone to take the albatross from my neck, I would have sold.

At Reese Murray's memorial service, when I approached the widow to offer my condolences, Lorelei Murray raised her veil and I still remember her expression of loathing; she was a square-jawed, broad-bosomed, stern woman who had relished the importance of her husband's position in town and she must have blamed me for her loss of status as well as the loss of her husband since the collapsed shoring had been of Ponderosa timber. Without a word, she spat at me and then dropped the veil back over her face. Everyone else was shocked but I pulled out my handkerchief, wiped my chin where the spittle had landed and moved on. My father who was behind me passed by Mrs. Murray without a word.

Then two weeks later, the epidemic struck and the mine was put from my mind.

Up to that point, I had received nothing from any of my inquiries about the investors that told me anything and a friend in Utah suggested I hire a Pinkerton man to investigate. I began to think that I was getting into something that was better left alone. The first time, two weeks ago when I'd discussed it with my father, he advised I cut my losses and bow out of the partnership, just sign over my shares, but I couldn't. I hated to be taken as a fool and I knew I had behaved imprudently; I hadn't performed my due diligence—I had been too busy congratulating myself on my business acumen to do what I should have—investigated every aspect of the mine. I was slipping.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**I divided the second chapter, _The Deaths_ , into two parts because I needed to rewrite this section and I'm still not completely satisfied, but it's better. Besides, the two sections together would have made for a long chapter, longer than I think people want to read.**

Pa had only stumbled upon one of the reasons I wanted to marry—Asher. I didn't have my father's parenting instincts unlike both Hoss and Joe who both reveled in fatherhood. Hoss and his wife Millie had two rowdy, raucous boys, Jessie and Willis. Joe and his wife Addie had a boy and a girl, Frankie and Bethany. Bethy was four, but all the boys were older than Asher who tagged behind his boy cousins as they managed to find trouble whenever the family gathered at the Ponderosa. Asher was always the scapegoat when they were caught in some mischief and my son would stand with his eyes wide and full of tears while holding the damning evidence and denying he was the culprit. I never knew what to do and he infuriated me; how could he allow himself to be put in that position over and over? Didn't he ever learn? I suppose that being the oldest in my family, I had no understanding of what it was like to be the youngest but I wanted to tell Asher to fight for himself. But I can't tell him to lay into one of his cousins and pound them with his fists. Besides, he wouldn't win and then I'd have to punish him for starting a fight and bandage him up as well. I just never knew what to do when it came to Asher.

And my son was becoming defiant and rude despite my father's attempts to help me. I'd like to say Asher learned that behavior from his older cousins but all Hoss had to do was raise his voice and his two sons practically stood at attention and wet their pants at the same time. And they always answered "Yes, sir" and "No sir." And Joe's boy, Frankie, he wasn't disobedient either and always defended his little sister Bethy when she joined in their games just as Willis and Jessie stood up for each other. But Asher had no one but me and I wasn't very good at my job.

It had been three weeks earlier when Asher's insolence raised its head. Willis and Jessie wanted to go fishing at the small pond a quarter-mile or so from the house. Hop Sing was off Sundays and Addie and Millie were in the kitchen fixing the meal. So with Hoss giving permission to his boys, Frankie wanted to go as well and Joe said yes. Then Asher wanted to go. I said no, while holding Bethy in my lap. She adored me and I her and I used to wish I'd had a daughter instead of a son. The cousins left for the pond and Asher began to pout and plead with me, hanging on my leg and asking why couldn't he go. But children that young can't be reasoned with and my answer that he was too young to be near water with just his cousins didn't suffice. I explained it was too dangerous. He could stay behind and play with Bethy.

Asher was frustrated and furious with me—I knew that—but I couldn't let my son go along and if any of us had chaperoned, it would have ruined the outing for the older boys. So I promised I would take Asher fishing myself the next week. But that wasn't enough. Asher pounded the settee with his small, round fists, his face reddening, and Bethy, sitting on my lap, watched, her eyes round. I imagine it was the first temper tantrum she had ever witnessed as neither Joe nor Hoss tolerated such behavior from their progeny.

But the worst was when Asher came to me, stood before my chair. I could see the anger rise in his small body and then he swung out and hit Bethy as hard as he could. I stood up, Bethy wailing and handed her to Joe and told Asher to go to his room. He faced me, David facing Goliath and braced himself on his sturdy legs, and yelled, "You're a big, dumb, stupid-head! I hate you! I hate everybody!"

A collective gasp went through the room; it was the worst name my son could contrive and here, in front of everyone, he had, as we say, "shown his ass." I looked down at him, hoping to intimidate Asher with my size alone but he wasn't in the least. Instead he added, "You're the meanest pa ever!" He was challenging my authority and I had to prove myself.

I could tell without even looking, that my father and brothers were embarrassed for me because I had allowed my son to become a holy terror who talked to his father that way. So I bent down and swept him up, and with his kicking and screaming and trying to strike me with his flailing fists, I hauled Asher upstairs and put him in his room and while I stood in the hall holding the knob, on the other side of the door, my son cried and yelled, tried to turn the secured door knob until his fury finally drained him and he broke off, dropping to the floor from the sound of it. And I heard his muffled sobs from inside.

When the cousins returned with the fish they had caught dangling from a stick stuck through the gills, I went up to fetch Asher; dinner was now ready and Hoss was putting the fish in a pail of water. I opened Asher's bedroom door and he was peacefully asleep on the round braided rug. I stood and looked at him, my heart filled with pity for the motherless child—he was so beautiful with a face like one of Raphael's angels. My heart filled with such overwhelming love and grief that it almost choked me. How unfortunate he was not to have a mother's lap in which to crawl and have his soft black curls kissed and feel soft, gentle hands consoling him.

And I felt sorry for myself as well. I needed the sound of a woman's voice telling me I was loved and feel light hands touch my face and soft lips on mine. I needed the taste of a woman's body and to smell her scent on my finger after I touched her hidden places. Both my life and my son's desperately needed a woman.

I pulled the comforter from the bed and placed it over my small child and left him to sleep. And at bedtime, he was still asleep on the rug, so I just picked him up and placed him on the bed. But I knew that Asher was getting out of hand. I had to bring him to recognize my authority, my position as his father but it seemed that Asher would always refuse being directed and I had to change before he became too old and too big to be managed. I wasn't sure how to do so. I needed help. I needed a mother for Asher even if she wasn't what I had hoped for me.

What prompted my marriage proposal to Mrs. Chandler was that I had scared myself. I told you that Asher had become defiant and two nights before I decided to propose, I told Asher to go upstairs and wash his teeth and his neck and change for bed and he stood there and told me, "No." I had heard that word enough—it was all he seemed to say to me anymore-and I lost control. I grabbed my boy by the arm and jerked him off the ground and with the other hand, smacked him across the backside. Rage built up inside me and I wanted to keep smacking him but my Pa stood up and grabbed my arm. I realized what I had done and put my boy down and Asher stood open-mouthed—too surprised even to cry. It was the first time I had laid a hand on my child in anger. Oh, I could use the excuse that I was tired—I was—bone-tired. I could use the excuse that my head ached because it did—had been pounding all day and I was going to take a dose to hide from the pain. But there was no excuse—I was the adult and Asher had brought me to the edge.

"Asher," my father said calmly, "go upstairs and wash up; your father will be up in minute to tuck you in."

My son looked up at me with huge dark eyes, his lips quivering, so in as even a voice as I could muster, I told him to do as his grandfather said. He turned and climbed the stairs as quickly as his small legs could go.

"Adam, one smack is enough; he's only 5."

I nodded and then headed outside and walked a-ways from the house, sitting down on a fallen log. I wanted to cry—there were so many things over which I longed to shed tears, longed to sob out my heart- my lost wife whom I had loved and my large, lonely bed and my ineptness as a father. And it was then I decided that I would ask Miriam Chandler to marry me. Not because I believed she was the answer to my despair but because hopefully, she could dull its cutting edge.


	4. Chapter 4

**Miriam Chandler**

As I said, Mrs. Chandler had already see me at my worst, that being after my wife died and I fell into despair. She had softly knocked on the bedroom door and then entered despite the fact I hadn't responded. She stood before me, her image fading in the dying daylight, and said she wished she had been able to do more. That was the first time I truly looked at her. I realized that the few times I had come across her, she had dropped her face as if afraid to draw attention to herself, afraid I would see something there. Since her husband had so horribly died, she was always in black. And with dispassionate interest, I considered that Mrs. Chandler was a truly beautiful woman, lovelier than my deceased wife. And she was always composed and quiet but this time, she looked me in the eye.

Don't think I was already lusting after another woman—I wasn't, but Mrs. Chandler's skin was pale and smooth like alabaster. Her hair was raven black and her eyes were of a deep hazel with flecks of gold and there was something—exotic about her face with the high cheekbones but yet, her face was full—like a child's. I imagined how she would be nude with her rounded buttocks in my hands as I traced her throat with my tongue. It was a fleeting image, only a few seconds, but the image and the urge stayed with me. Human beings are full of contradictions. At such a sad time, I could still imagine being with a beautiful woman.

But I sat with no response. Mrs. Chandler finally asked if there was anything else she could do for me before she left? She'd told me the body had been prepared for burial and she had dressed my wife appropriately—my father had chosen the dress. I had been unable to do so—it seemed such a trivial thing, I told my father—pick anything. But I was a coward-couldn't bring myself to look at my dead wife's things—to touch them. It ended up there wasn't a viewing; her skin was still covered with the rash of measles and people would stay away, afraid of lurking contagion. That's the way things had been around Virginia City—quick burials and few mourners. But when I looked in the coffin at my wife's still body lying on the smooth coverlet, she was wearing a dark green dress with pink trim, one my father had seen her wear to church many times.

Mrs. Chandler repeated her question. "Is there anything else I can do, Mr. Cartwright, to relieve your burden?"

I took an intake of breath and I recall I shuddered slightly as I released it. "No. Nothing." I considered how odd it would be if I had told her, "Yes. You can lie down on this bed and let me toss up your skirts and bury my face between your thighs? That would ease my burden significantly." Would she gasp and run away? Would she tell my father and everyone she met after, that Adam Cartwright was mad? Or would she smile, not having been with a man for so long, and comply?

But I never said it and she still stood before me. "Your son is with his Uncle Joseph and his family. The undertaker is coming this afternoon with the coffin and your father is staying to meet him. The doctor has already gone and will file the proper papers. May I bring you some coffee? Something to eat?"

I shook my head. I wanted to be left alone and yet, having her close was a comfort. I would have liked for her to just sit with me in the fading light so that I would hear her slight breathing and have the animal comfort of another body in the same space but I quickly dismissed it; it was a foolish idea and I was no child. I had dealt with death many times before. During the war, having joined the Union army two years before Lee's surrender—I witnessed deaths more dreadful than anyone could imagine. And I had seen horrors as a prisoner of war in Andersonville that I still couldn't verbalize but this—this death was the most difficult for me. I think Mrs. Chandler understood that. She had lost her husband to disease and I wondered how she had handled it—if she had collapsed and wept, howled with despair, gnashed her teeth and raked her pale flesh with her nails. But I didn't think so. I imagine his death was something she had expected at some time during the war and even though he survived the many battles, I think she'd lived with it for so long that when it finally came, it just seemed due course; if nothing else, I felt Mrs. Chandler was a realist.

"Perhaps you'd like a brandy or a whiskey, Mr. Cartwright? Or to talk? I can get your father for you. He's worried about you—greatly concerned since you turned him away earlier. He's suffering as well, you know. A parent suffers to see their child in pain and although you may not think of yourself that way, you are his child. And he also grieves for the loss of his daughter."

I was tempted to turn on her—I wanted to lash out-but stopped myself. "Whiskey. If you'd bring me a bottle…I'd appreciate it."

She nodded and in a few minutes, Mrs. Chandler returned to the room with a bottle of Kentucky bourbon and a glass. She handed them to me and I noticed her elegant almond-shaped fingernails.

"Won't you stay? Have a drink with me?" I asked. "You can have the glass—I'll drink from the bottle." I held it up and smiled.

But Mrs. Chandler politely demurred. I suddenly asked her to sit—to stay for a bit and she agreed. She sat stiff-backed on the upholstered, flowered chair in the corner of the small guest bedroom while I sat on the bed and drank too much and talked about my wife and my son and wondered how I could go on without the woman I loved. And as I became drunker, I began to weep and eventually I deteriorated into a sloppy, sodden drunk. Mrs. Chandler rose and sat next to me on the edge of the bed and spoke about the mysterious ways of the Lord and that life was for the living. I remember I cursed and told her that I had no use for mere platitudes—they meant nothing.

"You have no idea," I accused her, "what it's like to lose the person you had planned to spend the rest of your life with, the person you had chosen to love, the one person in this goddamn world to share your miseries and joys with you!"

If I hadn't drunk so much whiskey, I never would have said what I did. But I remembered again that she was a widow, although I had never thought much of her husband—he had been an angry man who blamed others for his misfortunes.

"I'm sorry. I spoke without thinking," I muttered in an inept attempt to apologize. But I knew that once words are said, there is no taking them back.

"No, you're right, Mr. Cartwright." She rose from the bed. "I don't know what it's like to lose all that you mentioned. But you have my sympathies nevertheless." And Mrs. Chandler turned and left the room. What she'd said stayed with me and it was that one confession of hers that made me examine things—and look at her in a new light. As I said, she's a realist.

I know that I might be confusing you because my story isn't a straight line—from beginning to end-but memory is odd. One thing I say reminds me of something I'd almost forgotten. So in order for you to have the actual story, well, one thing leads to another in what seems to be a convoluted pattern. Just bear with me—it all comes out.

You might wonder what Mrs. Chandler was doing in my house, in the bedroom with me, but it was all on the up-and-up. Dr. Martin had been stretched thin with all the infected and it wasn't unusual for him to have a patient die each day—sometimes two or three and many of them children. But he had said when checking on my son that when adults caught measles, it was often worse. And then about a week later, after it was obvious my son was rebounding, I came up behind my weary wife to embrace her and kiss her neck. I saw a slight rash behind her ears and on her neck. I couldn't breathe; it was as if she had been marked for death and what Dr. Martin had said kept running through my head—that when adults caught the measles it was often worse.

And it was worse.

I was desperate. My wife told me to stay away from her—begged me not to come into our bedroom but I knew she was raging with fever and I had to do something. I wouldn't be allowed into town—I knew that-but I had to get the doctor for my wife, so I stood on the outskirts of town, holding my son in my arms, and swore to one of the posted deputies that I wouldn't enter but that my wife was ill. I needed the doctor at my house. Sam Farrow was the deputy—the blacksmith, and he was sympathetic.

"Adam I wish I could do more for you but I got orders. I'll get your message to Doc but I can't let you into town, especially now that you got the measles for sure at your place."

"Sam, she'll die. I need Doc to come now." Asher had become fussy, rubbing his eyes, and twisting in my arms.

"Adam, we got people dyin' right and left. My apprentice, Jack—he died last night and I been scared of comin' down with it myself. Doc's been run ragged, he just goes from house to house. Don't think he's slept more'n an hour since this thing started, but I'll get word to him. You best just get back into that buckboard and head home. And word of caution—stay away from your family. You don't want to spread it to them."

So, reluctantly, I did what Sam said and went back to my house and despite my wife's protests, took her in cool water to drink and a wet cloth for her forehead. But the doctor didn't come—couldn't come. Instead he sent Mrs. Chandler to nurse my wife. She said she'd had the measles as a child and seemed immune to the disease and had helped nurse others in town. Mrs. Chandler told me to stay away from the sick room; I protested but she insisted. After all, I had to tend to Asher as she reminded me; he was better but not well.

"Mr. Cartwright, please. Your wife is contagious. I'll do my best to keep down her fever, but you need to do your part and help your son. He's just a baby and if, God forbid, your wife should pass, he should have at least one parent."

I didn't know how to react to such bluntness but Mrs. Chandler was blunt, honest and to the point. And I appreciated it. She brought the monsters out in the open and made me face them.

For almost a week, I was alone with my son. Mrs. Chandler would leave the sick room for water and clean cloths. She would wash the infected ones in hot water outside, the steam rising into the cold air. I would watch her from the window as she scrubbed the cloths she had used to cool my wife's feverish forehead, and then hang them to dry; in the mornings, they would be frozen stiff and when I asked her about it, she said that she believed that extremes, both hot and cold, killed whatever it was that caused the measles or anything else. I noticed she also tied a cloth around her face covering her nose and mouth while in with my wife. She believed, she said, that a miasma was in the air around an ill person and the cloth behaved as a barrier to keep the effluence out.

Mrs. Chandler was exhausted by her duties and I could see the dark circles under her eyes. And one afternoon, when she completed the daily washing of the sick room materials, she sat down on a stump in the yard by the bench that held the wash tub and I could tell she was undone. I watched her weep but felt no need to comfort her; she wouldn't have accepted it and to have the husband of her patient do so would have caused her to run from the house. She would mistake it for lust—and she might not have been wrong.

I kept my distance from Mrs. Chandler and hoped that my wife would recover. But in the evenings, Mrs. Chandler would make a bone broth for my wife who took only a spoonful or two at best. All I could cook was eggs and bacon and Asher wasn't eager to eat them for breakfast and dinner. Mrs. Chandler barely ate anything and tried to keep things tidy. She would say when I told her that she was doing too much, that uncleanliness bred disease and therefore, she had me wash Asher's clothes and napkins every day. Usually it was Mrs. Peterson who kept house for us but since the outbreak, she had stayed away—there was a plague on our house.

But the third day, Mrs. Chandler made a huge pot of bean soup seasoned with onions, garlic, hog back and fried greens. And she baked a huge batch of biscuits. The whole house smelled like a home again, the savory odor of beans, pork and onions wafting from the kitchen. And that night, Asher and I ate like kings.

"Thank you," I told Mrs. Chandler. "That is the best bean soup I've had—I think ever." It's amazing how a full belly changes one's outlook on the world. Suddenly I had new hope that my wife would recover and I could get back to my life. You know what a foolish notion that was-hope is a bitch.

"I'm glad you liked it," she said, blushing like a young girl. "It was my husband's favorite; I could make it with my eyes closed." And she smiled—for the first time. It was a brittle smile.

And then, as you know, I buried my wife and tried to continue living. Only my brothers, father, and Mrs. Chandler attended the burial. Hoss' wife Millie stayed at home with their boys; she and most others feared that even though my wife's body was in a casket hastily delivered by the undertaker, the corpse may still exude disease. No one from town could attend had they wanted due to the quarantine and many had their own family funerals to attend. I wanted to thank Mrs. Chandler again for all she had done and for her kindness to me and to Asher, who I held during the service presided over by my father, but she left so quickly that I never had the chance.

Almost two years went by and Mrs. Chandler passed wordlessly through my life but every so often as I lay unable to sleep, I would think of my wife and miss her in our bed. All I ever had to do was reach over and pull her to me, begin to kiss her and she would respond even if it was midnight. But she wasn't there anymore. And then I would groan. I would try to think of anything else—anything—the next day's work, the books, the timbering-anything else. It rarely worked so many a night I'd consider visiting a brothel —and I would think of Mrs. Chandler living on the edge of town and how no one would know if I visited her, if I spent nights with her legs locked around my waist as I was buried deep inside her.

And I began to think of her more and more and she became the woman in my masturbatory scenarios. As stupid as it may sound, I felt I was unfaithful to my wife by imagining another woman ministering to my needs—but it didn't stop me. I would think about Mrs. Chandler's mouth, how smooth her lips on me would be, and the pressure of her tongue. And afterwards, when I lay spent, I would wonder what kind of man I was; the war and death had changed me to such a degree that even I didn't recognize myself. All those things I swore I would never do when I was younger and idealistic, well, I've done them and that's just the way things are.

Once the measles epidemic passed and normal life returned, church services began again and I would see Mrs. Chandler at service. I would tip my hat and she would offer a small nod and after a while, it was a nod and a smile but that was the as far as our interactions went. I can't say I had my mind on God or anything else holy or divine—except Mrs. Chandler's divine beauty and her rosy lips and white hands.

But the seasons passed and then one fall when Asher just turned 4 years, I asked Mrs. Chandler to the Harvest Dance, a street dance. The townspeople decorated a whole section of the main thoroughfare with ribbons and crepe paper streamers, bushel baskets of Indian corn, multi-colored gourds and pine cones. Chinese lanterns were strung across the streets to be lit when dusk set in. Citizens who played instruments formed a small orchestra of sorts and the deputy mayor called the square dances. I had been asked once to play the guitar with the "band" but declined; at the time I was too busy courting a pretty girl, Mary Delany, who later married a no account who passed through town; Mary took off with him. But back then, she was free and I wanted to dance with Mary and sequester us in some corner to woo her with sweet words and steal more than one kiss.

Mrs. Chandler accepted my invitation to the dance, the first one I would attend since my wife's passing. As to whether or not she ever attended such goings-on, I didn't know, but as I had dressed that evening, I found myself whistling. I realized my heart was lighter and I was actually looking forward to the music and the joy of dancing and holding a woman in my arms—especially her. It had been so long since I had felt the warmth of a woman's body pressed against mine; I wanted the escape of it all. I felt eager as a randy youth, but as I adjusted my tie, there was no escaping I was a man growing older every day, my hair greyer with every passing hour it seemed. There were deep creases in my forehead and lines about my eyes and I saw what Mrs. Chandler would see—a sad, aging man who hadn't truly smiled in years.

I knocked on her door. The house was a sad thing—in need of paint and minor repairs. I waited and then the door opened. To my pleasant surprise, she wasn't wearing black but a deep-rose colored dress and a small pearl drop in each earlobe. She looked flushed and nervous like a young girl.

"Please, come in, Mr. Cartwright." She stepped back into the parlor and I followed, closing the door behind me. I found I was anxious and as I helped her with her shawl, I looked at the back of her exposed neck, her dark hair piled on her head and the skin was pure, smooth. There was no rash as there had been on my wife. I hadn't even thought of that moment in so long—and I dismissed it as Mrs. Chandler turned to thank me. I think I smiled at her, so happy—so very happy to be in the company of a woman.

That dance was the beginning of our relationship, although when I took her home, she gave me no chance to try for a kiss—not that I had intended to, but it was awkward nonetheless.

"Good night, Mr. Cartwright. Thank you for a lovely evening." She had unlocked her front door, taking that courtesy away from me, and stood in the open doorway.

"Thank you, Mrs. Chandler. Perhaps I can see you again, that is if you're so inclined."

"Yes. I think I'd like that. Thank you again. Goodnight."

And she softly closed the door in my face. I waited for a few moments and no light went on downstairs. But as I walked away, I turned and saw an upstairs window glowing. Mrs. Candler must have gone straight upstairs and it was only 9:00 in the evening. It made me wonder about her life, how empty it might be. A widow who had lived alone for as long as she had must see each day yawning before her to be filled and then her life shortened by each sunset. But that was how it was for me, and perhaps I was only assuming she was the same as I. For all I knew, she was relieved that I was gone and that she was now alone.

I courted her for almost a whole year and she never called me "Adam" and I never called her by "Miriam." My family thought it odd but somehow it seemed proper since she and I had never even exchanged a kiss although I found I thought of her every night, wondered what she looked like without the draping of clothes and how she would respond in the act of love. My muted lust and loss of desire for a woman that had gripped me when I was overwhelmed with grief at the loss of my wife had come raging back that night of the dance and I was like a stallion, eager to cover the mare who waited, trembling to be taken.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Woman in the House**

Our wedding was simple. Hoss was my best man, smiling and proud; I'm sure my family had discussed how they hoped I would now be happy and this was seen as a turning point in my grief. In a way it was but problems don't resolve so quickly and one solution raises another issue. The only manner to escape your demons is to go away yourself but that wasn't an option.

Before the ceremony, while I was pacing on the front porch, Hoss came out to join me.

"You ain't nervous, are you, Adam?" He grinned.

"A little. How's Asher doing?" I wanted to keep the conversation off me.

"Fussing about his starched collar—says it itches him-but Hop Sing took him and all the cousins to the kitchen and is givin' 'em some of what he calls, 'wedding cakes.' They's supposed to bring good luck."

"Good." I stared out into the vista as far as I could before the dense trees rose up as a barrier. But the mountain range stood guard high over them and a hawk glided above us, probably looking for chickens or a piglet to steal. Hoss moved to stand beside me and looked up as well.

"You plannin' on moving back to your house soon?"

"Think Pa can't wait to get us out?"

"Nah. I think he'd be happier if all of you'd stay. He loves Asher, you know that. And he'd like to get to know Mrs. Chandler better."

"I'd like to get to know her better too." I didn't know why I said that. I hadn't intended to but where Hoss was concerned, well, I found I told him things I'd never tell anyone else.

"How d'you mean that, Adam?"

I turned and gave him a brittle smile. "I just don't know her well—what she thinks and such. All I know about her is what everyone else knows. She never talks about herself—never."

"Have you talked about yourself? 'Bout how things are with you? "Bout losin'…"

"She knows-remember? She was there when…" But I reconsidered. "No. I guess I haven't."

We stood in silence-waiting. "Well," Hoss said as he clapped my shoulder with one big hand, "Men marry them mail-order brides. Guess it's kinda the same thing. And I s'pose marryin' is one way to get to know someone really well." He was right, of course, but I also felt how ridiculous my situation was. And I had jumped in with both feet and eyes open. "'Sides, Asher seems to like her a whole lot. Think it's cute he calls her Miss Miriam and crawls up into her lap even bein' five now. But Jessie and Willis, they still like their momma and go runnin' to her for every little cut and such. Kinda makes men like us realize what we missed, not havin' a momma, don't it?"

"Yeah. I guess it does." I didn't want Asher to go through that. Not having a mother was…well, it left a man with a hole in his soul. Men learn things from a mother—tenderness and kindness and the feel of soothing hands and a soft voice. Hoss had at least been young enough to be held against Marie's bosom when he smashed his thumb or skinned a knee, but not me. I was in my early teens when Marie, Joe's mother came into our lives and I never sought her out for comfort although I longed for her touch as well. But I couldn't. To me, she was too beautiful, a grown woman who my father took to bed every night. Marie was my father's wife but she wasn't my mother.

Then Joe stepped out on the porch. "It's time, Adam." He was grinning and when I stepped in, I saw why. Everyone, even Asher who stood holding Hop Sing's hand while he finished off a small, fat cake, was lined up and Mrs. Chandler was waiting. And she was beautiful.

~ 0 ~

I discovered that Mrs. Chandler had asked no one to stand up for her—no close friend or relative. I then considered that she was more than likely alone and lonely and perhaps that was why she'd accepted my proposal. Her only income was the sewing she took in and she had lived frugally. All in all, I knew nothing else about her or the way she lived other than what I'd observed the times I'd take her home from church and she would invite Asher and me in for a cold lunch.

But as I said, she and Asher seemed delighted with each other and after only the second visit, my son would ask for a hug and a kiss when we left and she, smiling, would kneel down and take him into her arms. I wished I had the courage to ask for an embrace as well—I wanted so much to feel the warmth of a woman again.

You see, after my wife died, the world seemed dark, like a veil had fallen over my eyes—the sun never shone as brightly as it had before. I spent nights longing for sleep and often took a dose of laudanum to escape the seeming eternal darkness. I had no appetite, not for food or a woman. But Mrs. Chandler, she started to stir me and the clouds parted and the sun shone again. I found myself truly smiling when I saw her. Life took on a familiarity with stretches of dulled emotions and then her and the way she made me feel.

I knew Mrs. Chandler didn't love me, as I've said, and I didn't truly love her at the time. And although our wedding night was awkward, I made her mine and she was surprisingly receptive. She helped me to remove her gown by pulling it over her head and tossing it aside.

"I'm not a young girl anymore," she said quietly sitting up in the dark. But I had no complaints; I wasn't a young man either and if I didn't work every day I'd be soft-bellied like those merchants and bankers in town. My new wufe raised her eyes to look at me. It seemed that she expected me to reject her but no man would have and as eager as I was, it would never have occurred to me.

I spoke her name for the first time that night. In the darkness, I whispered, "Miriam." But she didn't call me by anything—not Mr. Cartwright or Adam. And the morning after, as I pulled her to me to keep her from rising from the rumpled sheets, she called me "husband." She said, "Husband, I need to wash and tend to breakfast."

"You don't have to cook breakfast or anything else." I pulled my bride back into my arms and looked down at her lovely, gentle face. "You're now a lady of leisure. As long as we stay here, Hop Sing will do all the cooking as he always has. And once we move to our own house, I'll find a cook and a housekeeper. You won't have to do anything but sit and eat bon bons and grow fat and lazy." And I kissed her throat, pleased that she arched her back slightly, exposing the length of her white neck almost as if she was a flower opening to the day. I wasn't displeased with her.

And it is interesting that what is to be the most intimate human act, congress, surprisingly doesn't bring people closer. It's the emotional nakedness, the revelations of fears and hopes that bring husbands and wives closer, but we, Miriam and I, weren't on that level yet. She had no modesty about rising from the bed as naked as Aphrodite rising from the sea but we had no conversations about what we kept hidden inside, not just from each other but from the world. But I was happy with her and the way she shared my bed even if we only shared the superficialities of life.

My father wanted us to stay on at the Ponderosa and so did Hop Sing although he never said it outright—just made comments about being happy when he has more people to cook for and to eat his meals. And as for Asher, he was happiest of all. Up to that point, he had called my wife Miss Miriam but now, shyly, he began to refer to her as "momma." One night as I tucked him in, he asked me to come close; he had something to whisper to me. I bent down and he put his small hands on the sides of my face and looked at me with his dark, serious eyes.

"Pa, is…momma going to stay with us?"

"Yes. She's going to stay."

"When we move back to our other house, is she going to come with us?"

I suppressed a smile. "Yes. Don't you want her to?"

No longer concerned with whispering, Asher released my face and I sat down on his bed. He sat up to face me. I admired my handsome boy, my chest swelling pridefully.

"I want momma to stay, but I was wonderin'—is it okay if I tell people I got a momma now? I mean when Willis or Frank or Jessie ask me, I can say I got one, can't I?"

"Of course, you can. But have they said anything? Is anyone saying you don't have a momma?"

Asher picked at his thumbnail and I put my hand over his to stop him. He didn't seem to want to answer me until he had thought it through.

"Willis said that if you had a momma, you can't ever have another. He said somethin' about the stairs and that's why she's not my real momma."

"The stairs?" I thought for a moment and then I knew. "Did he say Miss Miriam is your 'stepmother'?"

"Yeah, that was it? What's that mean, Pa? Willis said it's cause she's not my real momma."

I sighed and considered putting off the explanation but my son looked at me, expecting an answer so I did my best.

"It's just a name. It means that she didn't give birth to you but it doesn't mean that she can't love you as much as your true mother did or that you can't love her. That's all it means. She's still your…'momma'. Do you understand that?" He nodded his head. "Okay, now go to sleep." I tucked him back in and bent down and kissed his forehead. But before I turned down the lamp, he had another question.

"Pa? What's a stepbrother? Willis says you and his pa and Uncle Joe are stepbrothers. He says now that you married a stepmother that I might have one too?"

"This is the last question I'm answering tonight and then you have to go to sleep, understand?" He nodded. "Okay. If Miss Miriam, your momma, and I decide to have a child, it would be your stepbrother or if it's a girl, a stepsister. Actually a half brother or sister." Asher looked confused; I imagined the terminology of "half" was confusing so I backed off. "All it would mean is that you and your new brother or sister have the same father—me. But you'd still be brothers—or brother and sister—just like Frankie has Bethy as his sister and just as Willis and Jessie are brothers." He opened his mouth to ask another question but I cut him off. "Now go to sleep." I turned down the lamp and the room fell into semi-darkness. My son had fears of what hid in dark corners so I always left the lamp low until he fell asleep. "Goodnight." I left the door ajar so that I could hear my son if he had another nightmare—something he had whenever his usual routine was disrupted and lately he had been having one every night.

I descended the stairs and there, in the light from the fire sat my wife, darning the knees of Asher's small trousers. She looked up at me and I smiled; I wasn't in this alone anymore.


	6. Chapter 6

**The Homecoming**

Now that I felt a lightness come back into my life, my mind eased; I had a wife and Asher had a mother. I decided to look into the Horseshoe Mine again, the one I had invested in along with Reese Murray. His widow still didn't speak to me, didn't acknowledge my presence but she had been keeping company with Harry Baxter, the man who had purchased her shares and saved her. I hadn't really paid much attention to them, just noticed it like you would a fly buzzing about; you're aware of it but unless it lands on your food, you can't be bothered with swatting it.

What initially took my full attention was moving the three of us back out to the house.

I hadn't entered the place after Asher and I had moved to the Ponderosa; couldn't bring myself to do so. I knew that everywhere I looked, I would see my wife, where she had sat in the evenings, the kitchen where she and our housekeeper, had sat and laughed and gossiped. And then there was the bedroom where we had lain and talked and loved. So I was reluctant. Actually, I was afraid, as ridiculous as that is.

"You don't have to move," my father had said as I packed my things. Miriam was helping Asher, trying to make the move exciting and joyous. She herself had few possessions and wasn't interested in accruing more. I couldn't understand why and other than a few new dresses so she could shed the black she had worn for so long, she owned a vanity set and her new wedding band and the pair of pearl earrings. That was about all.

"I do. We do. We have to move back. I think Miriam would like her own home."

"Has she complained?" I knew my father didn't dislike Miriam but she was distant and he had been trying to reach out to her. And she responded politely. But as with me, she protected herself from something—I had no idea what it was.

"No, she hasn't complained but we've been here three months and next year Asher starts school and we need to be closer to town. And I'm hoping her having her own home will…please her." I buckled the carpet bag and waited. I knew something was coming.

"So that's it."

"What do you mean?"

"Things are bad, aren't they?"

"No." I wasn't convincing. "Things aren't bad, it's just that…Pa, sometimes I feel I married a complete stranger and I guess I did but…I don't understand her. She keeps everything to herself and shares nothing with me—nothing. I've tried to get her to say what she wants. Does she want to go, stay at the Ponderosa, move into town? I don't know what the hell she wants." My frustration showed.

My father shoved his hands deep into his pockets. I knew he was worried about me.

I smiled. "Don't worry, Pa. If things aren't to Miriam's liking, I'm sure she'll say something. And I do appreciate that you let us stay so long."

"Well, I enjoyed having all of you, having a full house for a while. I'll miss Asher."

"Don't worry. I'll drop 'im off all the time and you can babysit." I smiled and he did too. But we understood each other, my father and I. It wasn't as if women hadn't fucked up his life many times over. It was almost a legacy.

My two sisters-in-law had cleared out my wife's things soon after Asher and I had left for the Ponderosa. I couldn't do it, go through her belongings and dispose of them. I knew the scent of her lavender water would waft through the air—it would be as if her spirit was floating about me but I would be unable to touch the fabric that had lain against her skin. Out of kindness, Millie and Addie had intended to donate the clothing to the church poor box; that was one of my wife's valued charities, but I stopped them.

"But, Adam, It's what she would want," Millie said.

"It's not what I want. How do you think it'll be if I go into town and see some...loose woman flouncing about in one of her dresses or some barefooted, filthy farm-wife dragging her kids behind her, their grimy hands soiling and crumpling the fabric?" The two women looked at one another exchanging a glance that only women seem to understand and then, in calm voices—in patronizing tones, they apologized; they hadn't considered that, they said.

So instead, they packed up her clothes along with her other items and put them in crates, marking what they contained. As for the jewelry, the many things I had bought my wife, initially I had a quandary. I didn't want to give them to another woman I might one day marry; that seemed ghoulish. I told Addie to save certain pieces for Bethy. I also told them to take any pieces they admired. They demurred. After all, Millie had said, I might one day have a daughter and would want to pass the pieces on to her. But back then, I had no thought of ever marrying again—I wouldn't live through another loss-and insisted. So they reluctantly each chose a piece. Millie chose a pair of garnet earrings and Addie chose a coral bracelet. I kept the pearl necklace for Asher to give to his wife on their wedding day. My father put the other pieces in the small safe in his home just as he had stored our mothers' jewelry; he had given the pieces as gifts to our wives on our wedding days. I had slipped my mother's wedding band on my wife's hand and she was buried with it along with my mother's silver vine pin. But as for Miriam, there was nothing left to give her when we married and other than the thin gold band for her finger, I hadn't given Miriam gems or golden chains. Nothing. But if she was hurt, she never let on. Miriam was a blank page.

The day we rode up into the yard of the house, I was surprised to see how nature had reclaimed so much of the area. Wild vines wound about the porch railings, having smothered the rose bushes my wife had toiled over for so long, and seedlings were growing tall—some now saplings. They encroached on the house. I groaned at the thought of all the work I'd have to do.

The inside was musty and I hadn't known that my father—it must have been he—had thrown old sheets over the furniture. It looked like a room of ghosts. I stopped in the threshold while Asher took off for the stairs. He had chatted all the way about his room and about how I said he could have a pony. Miriam had listened and smiled and asked him innocuous questions. I was sure Asher remembered nothing about the house or his room or the toys we'd left behind but I had talked about his room in the hopes he would be happy to leave the Ponderosa and it seemed to have worked. But I found that I was reluctant now to take back the house as ours.

"It'll be all right, Husband," Miriam said once inside, and placing her valise on the floor, she began to gather the sheets while I stood and watched. She stopped as she rolled the sheets together. "Would you open the drapes and widows? The air is stale."

But I couldn't move from the spot. I had to change something, anything to rid myself of this overwhelming sadness.

"Why can't you say my name?" I asked. Yes, turn things around-change the energy—anger is best for doing that.

"What?"

My question came from nowhere and Miriam was surprised, blind-sided.

"We've been married for almost four months and you've never called me Adam. Why not?"

She ran her tongue over her lips and then, bracing herself said, "If you like, I will."

Now I could step into the room. "It's not 'if I like'. Why don't you 'like' it? We're husband and wife. We share the same bed and I call you Miriam but it seems if you said my name, you'd choke on it." I grabbed her arm and her face took on a look of fear, her eyes wide. And then the curtain dropped and I couldn't read anything in her expression. I released her arm. And although her face was unreadable, her voice betrayed her.

Miriam placed the sheets she had removed on the floor. "I'm going to see the kitchen. If you would, when you have time…Adam…bring in the stores?" And she turned on her heel and went stiffly into the kitchen.

I was going to follow, to apologize, to tell her I was sorry for being cruel. She could call me Adam, husband, sonovabitch if she desired—I was sorry. But Asher called out to me from upstairs.

"Pa, Pa, come here! Look what I found! Pa!"

I had to make a choice. I called out, "I'm coming, Asher," and I headed for the stairs. But I looked toward the kitchen and could hear sounds of cupboards being opened. I would imagine Miriam was looking for possible mouse dropping or insects who had made the vacant house their home. Home. Even the beasts of the fields could find a home in this place but I wasn't yet there.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**A Person of Interest**

I did apologize to Miriam. It was in the dark after I had rolled off her. I'd pulled her into my arms and buried my face in the hair at her temple. "I'm sorry about my behavior earlier, about being angry about what you call me. It doesn't matter." I had noticed that the rest of the day, Miriam had avoided calling me anything and had kept herself busy with polishing and dusting and washing, only stopping to put on the beans for soup. Her bean soup, her previous husband's favorite, was also mine.

Asher and I worked in the barn for the day; I thought I'd let Miriam avoid me by not being around. To be specific though, I worked and Asher followed behind asking what he could do. I gave him small tasks while I stacked the sacks of feed we had bought and cleaned out the stalls that hadn't been tended in years. Then I gave Asher a small spade and told him to dig out weeds in what used to be flower beds, showing him what weeds looked like. That kept him busy until dinner; we'd had lunch in town so it was the first meal in the house now that Miriam was the wife.

And that night, after I'd tucked Asher in and Miriam had done all she could do in half a day to prepare the house, we went to bed. She quickly undressed and I watched her breasts move as she raised her arms to pull her gown over her head. And then she sat in front of the vanity and took down her hair, brushed it and braided it for the night. But it wasn't the vanity my wife had used nor did we take the same bed or even the same room; I chose one of the guest rooms—or what had been considered a guest room because I couldn't take Miriam in the same bed where I had made love to my dead wife, where I had been so happy and delighted in her love for me. But all that seemed to have died along with her.

Miriam paused before climbing into the bed with me. I waited for her to say something—it seemed that she wanted to—but she didn't. She just turned down the lamp and slipped under the sheets. And I waited but she didn't say goodnight or anything else. So I reached for her.

Miriam wasn't cold despite how she may seem. She could be aroused to passion once I discovered how to touch her, how to pull her breasts into my mouth and where between her legs to touch. And she would kiss me with a distinct passion, run her gentle hands over me, lightly bite me and toy with me as well and in that manner, we were highly compatible. Every night of our marriage that I could, I took her and enjoyed it. She seemed to as well, moving underneath me and uttering small sounds of pleasure. Some nights I merely pushed up her gown, others, her gown was off and it was warm, supple flesh everywhere I touched, everywhere I kissed. And those times she seemed even more responsive, raising her hips to meet me. I considered Miriam becoming with child, how she would be with a full belly, with darkened nipples and swollen breasts. I also wondered sometimes how Asher would take to having a half-brother or sister, but each month, Miriam's bleeding came on. And Miriam was clever and during those times found other ways to satisfy me; it made me wonder about her past but she never said anything, never made any reference to herself or her life beyond telling me about her husband's taste in food.

I had been asleep for a while when I snapped awake. Asher was standing beside me, the small, forgotten bear he had found in his room that day, held against him.

"What is it?' I asked, knowing what it was while half sitting up. He had had a bad dream. He often had bad dreams and I would walk him back to his room and with the lamp on, would show him there was nothing to fear. I knew he never believed me but he would stay in his bed and I would go back to mine.

"I'm scared, Pa."

Miriam moved beside me and I felt her sit up.

"There's nothing to be scared of, Asher. It's your room in our house, remember? Nothing that scared you at the Ponderosa is here. We moved back home and there's nothing here."

"But, Pa, there's scary stuff in my dreams." He leaned closer. "There's ugly things chasing me. Big, ugly things and they want to eat me."

"For God's sake, Asher…" I sat up. "Go back to your room and I'll be there in a minute."

"I don't want to go back, Pa. Can't I stay here?"

I was about to answer him, telling him he was a big boy now and needed to sleep in his own room but Miriam rose from our bed in her white gown like some spirit rising from the ground—graceful and lithe.

"I'll go with you, Asher. I used to have bad dreams too."

"Really?' Asher asked, clasping his bear closer to him.

"Yes." She bent down and with some effort, lifted him. Asher wrapped his legs about her waist and laid his head on her shoulder, clutching her. "I used to have horrible things in my dreams as well but when I opened my eyes they were gone. That's how I knew they weren't real." She and Asher left the bedroom and I lay back on the bed. I must have fallen asleep quickly because I waked to the early morning sun in my eyes. Miriam wasn't there but then she often woke earlier than I did and perhaps she was starting breakfast. But I put on my robe and in the hall, I couldn't hear any sounds from the kitchen nor smell bacon and eggs or biscuits.

The door to Asher's room was ajar and I pushed it open further. In the rocking chair on a braided rag rug, the chair where Asher's mother had rocked him to sleep, sat Miriam, asleep, and in her arms, she held a slumbering Asher. It was jarring in a manner but it brought home that I needed to accept Miriam, not as a substitute for my dead wife but as my wife. Asher had accepted her and I knew I should as well—I had too because I wanted nothing more than to crawl into her arms and also be comforted; I wanted to feel secure and loved. I hoped she could chase away my terrors as well.

~ 0 ~

That evening, as Miriam washed the evening's dishes, I went up behind her and placed my arms about her waist. I felt her tense up. So I loosened my embrace

"Do you need any help. I'll dry." I thought that maybe she I could talk about nothing in particular if I worked beside her, if we did something that made us helpmeets.

She stopped and I stepped to her side. "No, that's all right. I enjoy this time alone. It lets me think. I hope you understand." I said I did, and she turned back to her chore. But before dinner, I had stood in the open door and watched as she and Asher made biscuits. He stood on a chair and used an upside down empty tin can to cut out each biscuit in his portion of dough.

"Look, Pa," Asher said grinning, flour on his cheek. "I'm helping make biscuits. Thi are mine but you can have one too."

I couldn't help but laugh and Miriam looked at me shyly. But now, afterwards, she wanted to be alone to complete her chores.

"I know you said you didn't want one, but I can still hire a cook and housekeeper. That would free you up and you could do other things."

She paused and looked at me. "I don't want anyone else in my…in the house or the kitchen. That is if it's all right with you."

I just nodded and she turned back to the dishes. I looked about. Instead of the familiar kitchen filled with chatter, it was a quiet, calm place. It hadn't really changed in that it still held the same butcher block, the same breakfront filled with dishes and the shelfs holding cans of out of season vegetables and fruits. But Miriam had made the place hers during my wife's illness. Did you notice I said, "my wife's." I still had trouble with this strange woman in my life, this woman who pleased me so much at night, who was accessible in the dark but became inscrutable during the daylight. But I felt akin to her and the walls she placed around herself as I did the same thing—but I wanted to bring hers down, to crash through them and have her vulnerable. I don't know why—it's just what I wanted.

Asher was in bed and I was too tired to follow a plot in a novel so I stood in the parlor. There was a comfortable divan, two upholstered chairs and a low cherry table which held an empty vase. There used to be flowers every morning from the garden. That was another thing, I mentally noted. The kitchen garden needed weeding and hoeing and I'd have to buy seed on my next trip to town. And paint. I needed to paint but first, some areas needed scraping. And then there was the front step that needed replacing as it bowed from moisture. And the roof. A few shingles had shifted and needed replacing; the ceiling and wall upstairs in the landing were water-stained. I reprimanded myself for having let things go for so long. A house was like a person; if not tended to at the first sneeze or cut, things only became worse quickly.

So I went into the room that had been my den to make a list of repairs. I stopped and looked. Everything was still in its place; it looked exactly the same as it had the last time I had been there. Miriam must have dusted sometime that day but she hadn't moved anything; all was as I had left it including a large pile of unread mail.

I lit the desk lamp and sat down. I went through the stack. I remembered when Hoss had brought the last of the mail; he had managed to get Fred, the postal clerk, and with oversight from the stationed deputy, to place the envelopes and papers on the ground. Hoss said he felt like a damned fool, like a kid playing a game but both Fred and Horace Tompkins who held the rifle on him, took it deadly serious. The quarantine had affected the businesses in town, all except the undertaker's.

I tossed the various newspapers to one side of the desk; I'd use them as fodder to start fires on cool evenings. And then I opened a few envelopes, sliding the silver letter opener under the flaps to open them. I noticed the opener was black with tarnish. Most of the letters were unimportant and some were advertising long-past auctions but one piqued my interest and I read it twice.

It was dated almost three years ago and was written by a banker in Sacramento with the bank's letterhead at the top.

 _Dear Mr. Cartwright,_

 _Your inquiry regarding Mr. Harrison Baxter was forwarded to me with an accompanying letter from Mr. Aubrey Reynolds, Esq. According to him, you had contacted him requesting information on Baxter. Let me tell you that I concluded, although we, that is my superiors and I at the First National Bank of Sacramento, did not believe it would be worth the man-hours and cost to pursue it, but that Harrison Baxter is also a Mr. Haddon B. Atherton._

 _About three years ago, Mr. Atherton served as a strawman for a group of underhanded investors who used him to "steal" money from our bank by applying for a business loan with what appeared at the time to be legitimate letters of credit. Nevertheless, once the money changed hands, Mr. Atherton disappeared and despite our best efforts and those of the detective we hired, he was not found after absconding with the money._

 _Nevertheless, the description of Harrison Baxter jibes with that of Atherton. If you would care for more information, feel free to contact me and I will do all I can to assist you.._

 _At your service,_

 _Mr. Reynold J. Wellman_

 _Manager, First National Bank of Sacramento_

All my past issues with the mine came to the forefront; I wanted to follow-up on Wellman's letter and hoped it wasn't too late. I would ask Hoss to help out with the repairs around the house and ask Joe to handle things with Ponderosa business for a short time. I wanted to investigate the matter of the mine myself. I had many questions and cursed myself for ignoring my mail and the mine for so long. I took out paper and began to update my inquiries to various people and lost track of time until Miriam came to the door and knocked, even though the door was open. I looked up.

"I'm turning in. May I get anything for you? It would only take a minute to put on some coffee."

"No, but come in—sit down for a minute. There are some things I need to go over with you." She looked as if I was trying to trap her. "It won't take long." She came into the room and sat in the chair across from me.

"I didn't move anything; I only dusted and if I lifted anything to dust under it, I put it down in the same place. If something's missing…."

"No, no, nothing's missing. Here." I handed her the list I had made and she looked at it, her brows furrowed. "That's a list of things around here that need repairing. If you find anything else, tack it on. I'm going to ask Hoss to help out while I take care of some other business. Is that alright if Hoss comes out and works?"

"Of course. It's your house and he's your brother."

I held myself back from showing my annoyance in my voice. "It's your house as well, Miriam, and you have a say."

"It's all right with me." She placed the list back on my desk; she obviously wasn't going to add anything.

"This is a catalogue from a Chicago mail order company." I held the thick booklet out to her. She tentatively took it from me. "It has furniture, kitchenware—even stoves. If you see anything you want, just write it on the order form; I'll send a draft."

"Thank you but there's nothing I want. I have everything I need."

I sat back and ran my hand over my mouth, stemming my irritation. Finally, I spoke. "We have money, Miriam. You don't have to make-do with things, be frugal and pinch pennies anymore. If you want a new stove, you can buy a new stove. If you want a new settee or new dining furniture, we can get it. I have plans to add another room, a library, and I'll need new furniture for that. And what about you-yourself? Don't you need anything for yourself?"

"No. I don't lack for anything. Now if that's all…." She held the chair arms, waiting for me to tell her she could go.

"No, it's not all." I became more annoyed with her. She was frustrating. I was offering her anything she wanted, whatever she desired and she refused. I was being loving and generous and she wanted none of it. "How about a new hat for church? Wouldn't you like one with feathers or roses or ribbons? The next time we go to town, stop at the milliners and buy one. Buy two, three, hell, buy one for every Sunday of the year! And order some new dresses. You're so beautiful and yet you dress like some homesteader's dowdy wife. Miriam, you can have anything your heart desires—anything and I won't begrudge it. Don't you understand?"

Her lower lip quivered and I knew I'd gone too far. "I'm sorry, Miriam…"

"Don't apologize. I am a dowdy homesteader's wife. You forget that. I've only been a wealthy man's wife a few months but I still feel the gnawing need to make do with little. It's become a way of life I may never shed." She stood up. "I'm sorry I displease you. I try to be the type of wife…I try…I'm sorry if I'm a disappointment."

"Miriam," I said moving around the desk to stand in front of her. "You're not a disappointment and you do please me. I enjoy our nights and…" I held her arms and looked into her lovely, dark eyes and wanted to take her right there on the desktop.

"I know why you married me," she said, "and I'm trying to fulfill my end of the bargain. I've never asked if you love me because it doesn't really matter. Many husbands and wives live amicably for years without it. It's just poets and singers who give it so much importance. Marriage is a compact, an agreement, a contract. I roll about with you at night, and during the day I cook, keep the house and tend to Asher. You keep me and support me. If you wanted a specific type of wife and I'm not she, then let me know—and let me go. I've been alone before and I can be again and survive."

I dropped my hands and stepped back. I chuckled. "You are something else, Miriam. I always thought I wanted honesty in all my relationships but now I'm wishing you were a goddamn liar, that you'd tell me you love me and that's why you're so eager for me every night. Now I find I may just have well been out visiting a whore every evening and tossing a few bills at her afterwards."

She said nothing—just watched me steadily and I heated up. She didn't run, didn't turn, was almost taunting me. And then she began to slowly unbutton her dress. And I watched while her white throat was revealed and then the smooth skin above the rise of her breasts. I couldn't wait. I slid one arm around her waist while slipping the other under her and lifted her off the ground only to lay her on the leather sofa along the wall. I ran one hand between her legs as I positioned myself above her, and was surprised to find she was slick already. Something about our confrontation had excited her, made her want me and that was enough for me. She didn't have to cling to me and tell me she loved me; that she wanted me was enough. And I wanted her. And afterwards, after we were spent, I lay with my head on her bosom and she ran light fingers through my hair. And I was content with our contract.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

**The Horseshoe Mine**

I slowly finished my coffee while watching Miriam clean up the dishes. I liked the way she moved—so innately seductive; it was hard to belie she had ever been a dowdy homesteader's wife and I wondered what had drawn her and Clifton to marry. As I think I said, I didn't know Clifton Candler well, had no reason to. He seemed a sour, bitter man when the land he bought didn't produce anything about scorpions and tarantulas and skulking coyotes. I supposed that was why she hated to waste anything; that mindset of deprivation is hard to overcome but at least she didn't reuse coffee grounds anymore although she saved them—for the garden, she said. Some flowers did well with the grounds tossed on the soil.

She and I were alone and the sun was filling up the small kitchen. Asher had asked to play outside—asked Miriam, not me for permission, and she had given permission after insisting he say "please" and telling him not to leave the yard. And except for the sound of simmering water to be used for washing and the clatter of plates being stacked, there was no other sound.

"I'll be gone most of the day." I waited.

"Will you be home for dinner?"

"Yes. I thought maybe you and Asher could go visit Millie. I know their boys are in school but…well, you'll be alone all day and I think it'd be nice for you and her and Addie to become friends."

She turned her face to me. "I'll be fine. There's still much to do and I thought I'd weed the vegetable garden. Looks as if the bean plants are still growing and the onions. Who knows what else is there." Then, turning back to her work, she asked, "Where are you going?"

"Miriam, come sit down." I found I was eager for her. I wanted to talk to her about my plans, partly because saying them out loud would help jell them. "Just for a bit."

I knew she considered refusing, making some excuse, as her lips parted but then she picked up her cup and saucer and sat down, pouring herself more coffee. Black. I put sugar in mine and she drank it black.

"A few years ago, I invested in a mine. It paid off and then the other main investor, Reese Murray, died in a cave-in and the mine's stood idle. I'd pulled the miners not wanting to lose anyone else, and then the epidemic struck and the mine just didn't seem all that important anymore. I've never gone back to it."

"He was the banker, correct? Reese Murray." I nodded. "I'd heard he stolen the money for the investment from the bank."

"That's what they said. His widow wanted me to pay the bank and swore she'd pay me back but I didn't do it. There was just something wrong about the whole thing and I offered to buy her shares but she wanted to keep them. Anyway, she was saved by the man she's now married to, Harry Baxter. Now's the interesting part. When I went through my back correspondence last night…"

"Did he go out there alone?"

"Who?"

"Mr. Murray? Did he go into the mine alone?"

"Yes. I don't know why but two men stopping on their way to Carson City said he was caught in a cave-in. They had heard the rumble and…"

"Was the body ever found?"

"No. He was buried under tons of rock…"

"Did anyone do any investigating into the witnesses?"

"No." I sat back, thinking. Miriam had a conniving mind—a bit like me. "I don't think anyone did. The rode into Virginia City and told the sheriff. But…"

"What?"

"They were traveling to Carson City; that's where they should have reported it, not back-tracked to Virginian City."

"That is odd as they couldn't have known he was from Virginia City, could they? Did they talk to him before he went into the mine?"

"I don't know," I said. Miriam was raising questions that I should have already considered.

"Maybe the banker never really died." Miriam said. "Or maybe…"

"Maybe they killed him?"

"It's a possibility. So there was no body to be buried?"

"No. Sheriff Coffee, our engineer, my father and I went out to the mine. The cave-in was about 10 yards in. I thought at the time that the shoring was sturdy and that it was unusual it would collapse. I figured Murray must have done something to cause it. I even considered dynamite—that someone had set off dynamite and knew exactly what they were doing. But when we couldn't recover the body, Reese Murray was declared dead. The funeral was more of a 'token' funeral, for legal purposes and to help Mrs. Murray with her grief. Although…. I don't know. She married within a year, married the man who had bailed her out of her troubles and they built a house in the best side of town, up on the hill."

"Could they have plotted to kill Murray so they could be together?"

I chuckled. "Lorelei Mason is not a woman a man would kill for. Now you, on the other hand…"

Miriam let my comment pass. "It's possible she wanted him dead for other reasons."

"Oh? What other reasons could she have? He was wealthy, a nice looking man and seemed even-tempered."

"Maybe he was just boring." I looked at her carefully to see if she was joking but she wasn't. She sighed and looked up from her cup. "There are many reasons a wife might want her husband dead. Many. But a woman would keep them to herself." Miriam sat for a moment longer and then rose from her chair, taking her coffee cup with her to the sink.

"I should have thought of all this earlier-years ago," I said. "The timbering in that mine was good. I know because I had the beams milled myself. I supervised the supports and where they were placed." Miriam had raised specters from the past and I considered they were from her past. But still, I wondered now if Lorelei Murray had anything to do with her husband's death.

I took my cup to Miriam and placed it on the counter by the sink. She pumped water into the wash basin and I reached for the teapot with the hot water and poured it in the basin for her. "I'm going out to the mine and then to town to talk to Sheriff Coffee. I might go see Mr. and Mrs. Harry Baxter as well. I'll see." I leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Miriam, do I need to be concerned? Am I boring?"

She gazed sideways at me. "No. I would never describe you as boring." Then she went back to her dishes and I left but I considered that I had underestimated Miriam. She was far more cunning than I'd realized and I felt a little uneasy in that I would never know her thoughts—would never really know her—she had made that clear. But that also made her more interesting, more delightful, and made me more eager to explore the woman who was my wife.

~ 0 ~

I sat in Roy Coffee's office while he looked through his files, mumbling to himself about what each one didn't hold. "No, not this one. It's been a while now, that's for sure. Three years, right?" he asked while he slowly pushed each individual file folder, opening a few and them refiling them when they didn't hold what he wanted.

"Right, three years." I wanted to jump up, shove Roy aside and look for the file myself. It was obvious that Roy would soon be retiring and his deputy, Clem Foster would more than likely be the next sheriff; he did most of the footwork. But I admired Roy as much as I did my father and so I pursed my lips and patiently waited for him to find the file holding the report of Reese Murray's death in the mine.

"Well," Roy said as he held a file in one hand and closed the file drawer with the other, "I think this is it." He sat at his desk and adjusted his glasses before he opened it and while he read, he ran an index finger along the lines of writing, his lips moving in silence.

"Roy. Can I look at it?" I leaned forwardly eagerly.

"I suppose so; nothing confidential here." He turned the file around to face me and I took it off his desk.

It was as I had remembered. Two men, Harrison and Rowland, said they had stopped for their noon meal near the mine. They were a distance but waved at a man who rode up and the man waved back. They were packing up to head on to Carson City when a rumble came from the mine and they heard the cave-in. The man's horse, obviously terrified by the sound and the expelled belch of dirt and dust, took off. The men then decide to report it in Virginia City after seeing there was no way they could save the buried man.

"Did you get any more information from them than their names and what's in here?"

"No, there wasn't any reason to and even if I had and didn't write it down, I wouldn't remember after all this time What's the reason for all this, Adam? Something come up?"

"Oh, I was just…here." I reached in my pocket and pulled out the letter from Wellman at the First National Bank of Sacramento. Roy opened it and read it.

"Well, this is interesting, that is if they are the same man. This Wellman fellow just says they sound like the same man but this letter is almost three years old."

"I know but if it was true then, it's still true. And it makes sense. I was out at the mine before I came here and no one's touched it. In all this time-no one. I lost all interest in it but tBaxter and his investors spent a great deal of money to own it and they've done nothing. And Baxter, he doesn't really do anything, does he?"

"Well, not that I know?" Rou rubbed his chin.

"He paid off Murray's theft and then married the weepy widow. I had other things to worry me then but now that I have time, well, it does seem suspicious."

"Well, I don't know about suspicious but I'd say odd. So what exactly are you thinking?"

"Tell you the truth, Roy, I'm not sure. I know that I can't ask for someone else's financial transactions but maybe you can." I waited and Roy raised his brows.

"Now, Adam, I can't go asking about Baxter's banking history and then tell you. One, it's none of your business and it's also none of mine."

"Look, you don't have to tell me anything about it, but why can't you open an investigation? It's possible there's some…what if people are trying to hide illegal profits from criminal activity and are passing the money through Baxter? And for his trouble and risk, he gets a cut—or even a regular paycheck. I don't know, but I think it's worth investigating."

And then Roy went into his lawman act. "Adam, I've got to have a reason to open an investigation into anything and as it is, there is no reason for me to investigate him or anything else."

"Look, Roy…" And then Roy put up his hand to stop me. If I didn't have such respect for Roy, I would have stood up, told him to go to hell and walked out.

"Adam, when I get something from the bank saying that there's suspicious activity or some wrong-doing by Baxter or his wife, then I can investigate and if I find anything, wire whoever I need to. But just because you got an inkling…"

Now I did stand up. "An inkling? My gut is telling me it's more than an a mere 'inkling'." I grabbed my hat off his desk where I had put it.

"Now don't go off half-cocked." Roy stood up as well and stepped toward me. "Adam, I trust your gut but I have to go by the law and…"

"Yeah, that may be but I'm telling you," I pointed my finger at him, "something's wrong. I've got a hell of a belly-ache over this."

Roy stopped for a moment. "Give my regards to Mrs. Cartwright."

I just slapped my hat on and went out. I stood on the sidewalk, tipped my hat to some passing ladies and then decided that I'd make a little social visit to the Baxters. After all, we were business partners, and I wanted to reopen the mine. I had a legitimate reason to see Harry Baxter. And my mind went back to Miriam. Suddenly I wanted to see her, to ride back to our place and take her in my arms. Why then, why at that moment I wanted her, I didn't quite know. But I decided later that it was because I doubted my actions and I wanted to run home to her and have her hold me and tell me I was right. After all I'd been through in my life—war, destruction, Andersonville, the death of my wife-I still yearned for the arms of a woman around me. I was getting as bad as Asher.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

**Love and Miss Miriam**

As I rode home in the falling darkness, I found I was eager to see Miriam, that as I had sat talking to the Baxter's, Lorelei's loathing for me not having ebbed over time, I would think that I had to remember to tell Miriam about this or that, or how the husband and wife had looked to one another before answering me. And it seemed the subject of the mine was just as bitter as the coffee Lorelei Baxter served me.

Asher and Miriam were already eating when I finally arrived home. It was after dark and the golden lamp light in the widows was welcoming. When my brothers or I were living at home and we were late, my pa had always left a lamp burning. The last person in was to bolt the door and put out the lamp.

I put my horse into the repaired stall, unsaddled him, and quickly scooped him oats, saying I'd be back later to tend to him. I threw my saddlebags over my shoulder and dropped them inside the front door along with my hat. I could smell beef stew and my mouth watered; I hadn't eaten any lunch. But before I went into the kitchen, I pulled two packets from my saddlebags.

Asher came running out to greet me and stopped directly in front of me. "Pa! Where you been?"

I crouched down to be at his level. "I was taking care of things in town and on the way home, I stopped by to see your Uncle Hoss."

"Pa," he said, lowering his voice. "I think Miss Miriam, was worrit."

Every so often, Asher would lapse back into calling her "Miss Miriam" but it was usually when he was discussing her with me. "Oh, and why do you thing she was worried?"

"'Cause she kept lookin' out the window. And her face."

"Her face?"

"Yeah, her face looked worrit—really worrit."

"Well, I'm home now and no one has to be 'worrit' anymore. Let's go have dinner." I took his hand and walked into the kitchen.

"We started without you—I hope you don't mind," Miriam said as she spooned me a bowl of stew.

Asher climbed back in his chair. "I was hungry!' he said as he picked up his spoon and proceeded to eat.

"You haven't eaten, have you?" Miriam stopped, still holding the bowl and waited.

"No, I haven't eaten and I'm hungry." I slipped an arm about her waist and pulled her to me. My heart was so filled at seeing her and Asher, at the warmth of the kitchen and the welcoming smell of the stew that I kissed her, deeply and fully. I felt her relax in my arms and her mouth yielded to me. If it hadn't been for Asher, I would have taken her upstairs and satisfied my hunger for her. But when she finally pulled away, she glanced at Asher and then looked back at me. My son was staring, open-mouthed and I realized he had never seen us kiss except at the wedding and that had been a mere peck. I reached over to ruffle his hair and he ducked his head to avoid me.

He glanced up under his brows. "You kissed her, Pa," he whispered.

"It's all right. She's my wife. Husbands kiss their wives."

"But she's my momma."

It was then I realized that Asher still didn't understand the ins and outs of marriage and our relationship. Miriam and I exchanged looks and I turned back to Asher. "She's my wife and your mother. Okay?"

He frowned and just stared at me. He didn't seem to approve.

"Is it okay if I wash my hands here?" I asked Miriam. She said it was so I scrubbed my hands in the sink and sat down where she I usually sat and where she had placed my plate of stew. "Smells good." I noticed she was looking at the packet tied with ribbon and the small paper bag I had placed on the table. "This is for you." I handed her the packet and she smiled and I swear she blushed like a girl.

"What is it?" She held it and stared at it.

I couldn't help but laugh. 'Why don't you open it and find out." I looked to Asher, to include him in the surprise gift but he was still watching me with narrowed eyes.

Miriam pulled the ribbon and unwrapped the paper and looked at the three hatpins. "I asked Mrs. Darcy to pick out three of the prettiest. I hope you like them. I don't know much about hatpins."

"Oh, Adam! Oh, they're beautiful!" She lay down the packet and picked up each hat pin and ran one finger along the length of brass or silver, admiring them. One had a multi-colored enameled ball at the end, one a large cluster of seed pearls and the third, a swallow in flight. She looked at me. "Why hatpins?"

"Well," I said as I reached for a biscuit, "they're to match the hats you're going to buy Saturday. I thought we'd go into town; you could do a little shopping for hats and Asher and I could handle some ranch business. Then we'd have dinner at the International House or Hop Sing's cousin's restaurant at the edge of Chinatown."

"I…" Miriam pulled herself together; I think she was determined to try to satisfy me, to be the proper kind of Mrs. Cartwright and to accept the fact that I wanted her to splurge on herself. "I think that would be nice." She looked at Asher and then back at me. "What's in the bag?"

"Oh, this. I think…" I opened it and looked inside. "Oh, now I remember. I bought gumdrops for Asher-for after dinner." I smiled and handed them to him but he didn't take them. Instead he asked to be excused.

"But, Asher," Miriam said, "you've barely eaten. Aren't you hungry?"

"No. I don't feel good. Can I go now?" He held on to the sides of his chair and looked down.

Miriam looked at me and then she said, "Of course."

I started to say something, to tell him that if he was going to sulk over nothing and refuse to eat, he could just go to bed but Miriam put a light hand on my arm so I stopped. That's what my father would have said to me—that if I going to pout, I could just pout in bed. But then, that may have been because there was no woman to soften things, to add the cotton batting to protect me from a man's rough edges.

Miriam intervened. "Why don't you go look at one of your books. Pick one and I'll come help you dress for bed and read to you after I finish with the dishes. Okay?"

Asher nodded but I wanted more. "Say yes, ma'am." I wasn't going to let him get away with being rude.

"Yes, ma'am." He glanced once at me and thenslipped from his chair and left, the bag of gumdrops still untouched on the table.

~ 0 ~

"You washed the dishes!" Miriam said when she came into the kitchen. She had been upstairs with Asher and so I had washed and was now drying the evening's dishes and the stew pot. The plate of biscuits was still on the table and I'd placed a towel over them.

"Thought I would help. Get you out of the kitchen faster."

"Well, thank you." She looked over at the stove. I had started a fresh pot of coffee.

"I want to talk to you." She suddenly had a look of apprehension; I wondered what subject she was afraid I would broach. "I went by the Baxters' and I'm not sure what to think of our conversation. Maybe you can help me. But first," I said folding the damp dishtowel in half and placing it on the counter, "I want to talk with Asher. Is he asleep."

"No. I told him he could look at his picture books. He's upset and I think it's about…he asked me twice about my being your wife and…the kiss. I didn't know quite what to tell him."

"I'll set him straight." I headed out of the kitchen but Miriam called me and I turned.

"Be gentle. He's only a confused child. Try to remember when you were so young and how confusing the world was. And for him with so many changes lately…just think before you act."

I said nothing else but took to the stairs and found myself outside my son's room. The door was half open and I pushed it all the way. Asher was sitting up in bed, flipping through the pages of a book, telling himself the story although he couldn't read. He glanced up and then, seeing it was me, went back to his book.

"Asher, I want to talk to you." He ignored me. "Asher. Put the book down. I want to talk to you." He continued to "read" but louder, trying to drown me out. I raised my voice. "Asher, put the book down. Now."

I watched him. He was trying to decide whether to obey me or not and what the consequences would be if he was openly defiant. Since Miriam had come into the household, Asher had been tractable and cheerful; it may have been her gentleness, it just may have been the novelty, but I had only come close two or three times to taking him out to the barn and laying a heavy hand on his backside. Although it rarely caused him any pain, Asher seemed to have a certain innate pride and I think it humiliated him to be spanked. So Asher deliberated his next action. And then he acted.

Asher slammed the book shut and threw it from the bed and crossed his small arms, glowering. If I hadn't been so annoyed, I would have laughed at his small temper tantrum and his sulkiness as he sat there like a little tyrant. But I wanted to pull him from the bed and force him to pick up the book and place it on the small bookcase but the idea of Miriam's disappointment in me made me do otherwise. And I was surprised at myself that she could influence me even without being in the room. I picked up the book and shelved it. Asher said nothing—just watched me.

"That will break a book. You need to treat them better or we won't get you anymore. And there are some very interesting books out there." Asher said nothing and I sat on the side of the bed. "Now suppose you tell me why you're mad at me. It seems to be because I kissed Miss Miriam. Did that upset you?" I thought I would refer to her by the more neutral name.

Asher slightly nodded. He was doing his best to ignore me and not cross the delicate line to open defiance.

"Can you tell me why?'

He sat in silence and then blurted out, "Because she's mine!" Now he was angry—really angry. He leaned toward me, his cheeks red, and I think he wanted to hit me. "She's my momma! She's not your wife! And you…she told me it was okay for you to kiss her but I say you can't!"

His fury surprised me. Miriam's words came to me again; "Try to remember when you were so young…" And I thought back to how I had felt about Inger when she came into my life. I wanted her attention and her love—I yearned for the love of a mother. And Inger loved me and the fact that I had to share her with my father was initially a bit of a quandary, but I knew that in order to have her, I had to let my father marry her and that she would be his wife. But Asher didn't seem to understand and I had neglected to explain it; I had assumed he understood.

"And do you know why she's your mother?" Asher looked at me suspiciously, as if he didn't quite trust me. "It's because she's my wife." He still sat with furrowed brow, considering. "You see, I'm your father so in order for Miss Miriam to be your mother, I had to marry her. Since I married her, hat made her my wife and also your mother." I considered whether I should add more of an explanation but decided it might only confuse things in his mind.

"I married Miss Miriam because I love her." That wasn't quite true as I'd already revealed, but it was becoming true—more so every day. "And because I love her, I kiss her. You kiss her goodnight, don't you?"

Asher nodded—almost imperceptibly. He still sat with his lips tightly shut, his arms crossed defiantly.

"And I kiss her. I'm her husband, your father, she's your mother and you're our son. Do you understand that?"

"Yes…I think so. But I say you can't kiss her anymore and you can't love her!"

"Well, Asher, Miss Miriam and I are grown people and we do what we think is best and I think it's best that I let my wife know I love her." I intentionally used that term—"my wife". I stood up and reached for the covers. "Now scoot down so I can tuck you in. No more talk tonight." He glared at me and then he slowly, very slowly, moved down in the bed until his head lay on the pillow. "Goodnight, son. Did you say your prayers?" He nodded. "All right. Good night." I bent down to kiss his forehead and that little pistol put his hands over his forehead to cover it and closed his eyes as tightly as he could.

I stood and looked down at him. He was still angry with me, furious with me, and it was all over the fact that he thought that Miriam was all his. I was encroaching on her love for him, at least that was how he saw it. But I left things alone, left him to think about what I had said and so I turned down the lamp near the door and closed it half-way. I slowly walked down to return to Miriam. I longed for her, for her warmth and the sound of her voice—and the taste of her mouth, the feel of her skin. I wanted comfort and reassurance and to lose myself in passion. We could talk about the mine business later; I wanted her upstairs and my desire was paramount.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

**The Disappearance**

When I took Miriam to our room that night, I found the key on the mantle and locked the door.

"Why are you locking it?" She asked as she began to disrobe.

"I kissed you and now Asher's not speaking to me. If he walks in on what I'm going to do to you now, he'll shoot me!"

I waited, wondering how she'd react, whether her face would close against me but then Miriam smiled, she even gave a light laugh and I went to her. I was beginning to care for her more and more and I flattered myself that she was falling in love with me. That evening we took our time with each other, almost languorous in our goal of mutual pleasure. And she used her warm mouth on me and I repaid her efforts with equal exuberance. It seemed that we had passed through a barrier of some type and I felt closer to her than any time before.

Afterwards, I held her next to me and told her about the Horseshoe Mine, how it would take a great deal of work and man hours to clear the rocks and debris and even then, I'd have to hire another engineer to examine the strata for accessible traces of silver. And then I told her about my 'social' call on the Harry Baxter.

"He told me if I wanted to reopen the mine again, I'd have to do it on my own. I reminded him we were partners—or had he forgotten that when he bought Reese Murray's shares. So I asked him if he wanted to sell me his shares. Then I'd own the mine practically outright so it'd be worth my time and money.

"He said he'd have to discuss it with the other shareholders. So I questioned him about them, who they were because I wanted to contact them; I wanted to call a share-holder meeting."

What I didn't tell Miriam was that Baxter was sweating so badly he mopped his brow with his napkin instead of his handkerchief. And Lorelei sat silently in the background, listening and watching. As I looked at them both, I tried to imagine the two of them, Lorelei and Harry Baxter in their bed, him on top of her and grunting away. Her mouth was hard, so firmly set in a perpetual frown, that to kiss it would be like kissing cold stone. And then the "pillow talk" afterwards. I couldn't imagine that happening and it seemed too grotesque to picture. I couldn't fathom anyone wanting Lorelei Murray, even it was just to release any pent-up urges. But it takes all kinds in this world.

"And?" Miriam sat up in bed and looked down at me. The lamp light was behind her and her face was still in shadows, her hair partially down from our tussle in the sheets. I reached up and pushed a few strands away from her face.

"And what?"

"What are you going to do?"

"Push Baxter some more. Maybe then he'll have to act, get to the bank or something, anything that might be worthy of opening an investigation—or the other shareholders will have to come forward. Baxter's been sitting pretty for the past few years and now I've lit a fire. Someone'll want to put it out."

She was quiet and I couldn't quite read her expression. When she spoke, her voice was harsh—as if the words gave from with difficulty. "Leave it alone. Just count the mine as a loss and leave the whole thing alone."

"Now you sound like my father. He's said it before and when I stopped by Hoss', he was there and said the same thing. Hoss agreed."

"Then listen to them. Forget about the mine."

"I can't. I have a few thousand invested and also, I think they're taking me for a fool."

"So it's your pride. You know what the Bible says about pride."

"No, it's not just my pride. I think there's something illegal going on and I have to do something about it."

"Why? Why do you have to do something about it. Leave things be. If there's something illegal going on then you're dealing with-think of the type of men who would using the mine for criminal purposes. Think about that."

Now I sat up. "I sent a wire to Wellman at the bank in Sacramento; he had written me that letter about Baxter possibly being a strawman in a previous transaction at his bank. By this Saturday, I should have the answer I need. And maybe then Roy'll start to investigate—make some people nervous. I also sent out some wires asking about the Forest Investment Group; they bought the 15% shares. When I asked Baxter about them, he said that he knew very little about the group, had just a passing acquaintance with Tom Jeffries who managed the group. But when I asked how I could contact Jeffries, I thought he'd piss himself. After that, the whole tenor of the room changed and Lorelei rushed me out. Baxter's up to no good."

"Leave it alone, Husband." Her voice rose. "Let Reese Murray stay dead in the mine and have nothing else to do with the Baxters. You may think you're untouchable because your family is prominent and because you're clever, but you can be hurt—even killed. People do things when they're desperate—things they never thought they'd do."

There was something about Miriam's face and her words that brought a chill. But the night shadows kept me from seeing her clearly and it could have just been a trick of the light and my imagination. But her voice-I didn't imagine the fear. I didn't imagine the terror below the surface.

~ 0 ~

The next morning, I left early-even before Miriam was awake. I had coffee and two cold biscuits with gooseberry jam and then headed for the Ponderosa. My father said he'd go to the mine with me and give his opinion on the cost of clearing it out. I'd told him that the shoring that could be seen was still upright and strong. I had incorporated the honeycomb structure created by The Dutchman, Philip Diedeshiemer, who had revolutionized the Ophir mine and many others. And Hoss was coming over to help set up new fencing and repair the porch steps at the house so I'd have the time to recruit workers.

I knew Asher would be happy to have his "Unca Hoss" around and hopefully, Hoss could make him forget his anger with me and help my son regain his good-natured equanimity. And I had told Miriam to prepare a big noon meal as Hoss would be hungry—I suggested her bean soup and bread as Hoss would want to sop up every drop.

My father and I examined the mine. "Looks like the whole mountain came down," my father said as we stood in the tunnel holding lanterns. "I don't know, Adam. You're looking at quite a bit of money and if you want to hire Ponderosa hands to clear it, you'll have to wait until after round-out and branding. And even then…I say leave it as an abandoned mine. You said Baxter's not interested and seems like the minor shareholders aren't interested either."

"You know, Pa. Reese Murray's supposed to be buried under all that rock but we don't really know it. Don't you think his widow would want to recover it or would at least want his death finalized? And what if he's not even there? Maybe he took off with the money from the bank?"

My father sighed and looked at me. "Adam, I know that when you've made up your mind you don't listen to anyone else but I'm going to say it again-leave the mine be. Chalk it up to lesson learned and walk away."

"Maybe you're right. Miriam says the same thing but…there's something not right…how does Harry Baxter make a living? He doesn't work. Lorelei wasn't a wealthy widow and now we have a shadow company that no one seems to have any information about, and they've slipped into the background. I'm intrigued by the whole thing and it's rotten to the core—I know it."

My father put a hand on my shoulder. "Adam, listen to your wife even if you won't listen to me. Forget about it, go home and get busy giving Miriam a child. Enjoy your life and forget about all this. Turn your back on it and walk away." He glanced about the mine again. "I don't think I ever want to enter here again." He turned to leave and then stopped. "Well, come on, Adam. Lets' get some fresh air."

~ 0 ~

Asher had never eaten the gumdrops I'd given him and despite his day spent "helping" Hoss around the place, he still glowered at me and lowered his head at the dining table. I decided to behave as if nothing was wrong, as if all was well but Miriam put her hands on my chest as I slipped my arm about her waist to pull her to me. It was subtle but I received the message; no obvious affection in front of Asher.

The next day was Saturday and I had to smile at Miriam who seemed excited at going into Virginia City to buy a new hat—as many hats as she desired—and to be fitted for a few new dresses. The color was high on her cheeks and she had her hands full with Asher; he didn't want to go for some reason or the other.

Finally, I stepped in. I knew Miriam was watching and I wanted her to approve of me; I didn't want to upset the delicate relationship we were developing. If she turned her back on me, if she became angry and cold, well, I didn't even want to consider it.

"Asher, put your boots on and get your hat. We're going to town and I don't want to hear any more about it. Now, either you do what Miss Miriam told you to do or I'll have my say with you over my knee. Now you decide what you want."

I waited, standing his bedroom door. Miriam was downstairs, pacing as she waited. I could imagine her listening carefully for a raised voice or wails from Asher as he was spanked. But Asher decided to comply and sat on the rug, pulling on his small boots. Then he took his little flat-brimmed hat from the low peg on the wall and put it on his head.

"Good," I said. "Now let's go." I stood aside and Asher walked past me, looked up at me and then went down the stairs. I was close behind him and saw Miriam's relieved look. A battle of the wills had been avoided—for a time, at least.

All the way to town, Asher sat between us, avoiding me as much as possible, talking to Miriam about all that Hoss had taught him. "And Unca Hoss said that you have to be careful not to hammer your thumb." Asher giggled and Miriam laughed as well. "He told me one time he hit his thumb stead of the nail and it swole up real big and then his thumbnail turned black and fell off and for a long time he didn't have a nail at all! He said that's why they call them thumbnails and fingernails—'cause people hit them so much 'stead of the real nails."

By the time we arrived in town, the place was buzzing. There were more men, more horses and more noise than just a few days ago. I had forgotten that ranches were now hiring cowhands. Drifters looking for a few weeks of work were arriving and discovering that Virginia City had four bars and even more whorehouses—all of which opened for business soon after sunrise.

The bars served bowls of boiled eggs and soon the floors would be littered with eggshells that would be pulverized under boot heels. And the balconies of the brothels were full of women calling to customers as they sidled and turned and leaned over to reveal their creamy breasts to the appreciative cowboys. The whole town crackled with energy.

I found a place to leave the buckboard and asked Miriam to take Asher with her. He was standing in front of her anyway, leaning back against her full skirts and she placed her gloved hands on his shoulders.

"I have to go to the telegraph office, the bank and maybe even the Baxters' again. So if you'd take him to the milliner's and the dress shop with you, I'll meet you there in about…what? Two hours?"

She agreed but I knew she was disappointed I wasn't letting the whole matter go. I watched as she and Asher went off, her holding his hand. I decided I'd buy Asher another bag of gumdrops—maybe even molasses candies and a few butterscotch. It might serve as a peace offering. But I had to get to the telegraph office. I wanted to know what Wellman had to say about Baxter, alias Haddon B. Atherton and if he had heard of the Forest Investment Group.

I was sitting in Roy's office, drinking his bad coffee and discussing the telegram I'd received; Wellman had died of a fever last summer and no one else at the bank could be of service at that time. "Nevertheless, if we can be of service to you on any other matter, please feel free to contact us again."

"I guess that kinda finishes it," Roy said, leaning back in his chair. He seemed a little smug.

"The hell it does." The door opened and Miriam came in. She was pale—her lips almost bloodless.

"What is it?' I stood up and grabbed her shoulders; she looked as if she was going to faint. I put her in the chair and Roy bustled around feeling as helpless as I did. I thought she was going to faint.

Miriam grabbed my arm as I leaned over her—clutching it. "I can't find Asher."

"What do you mean? You took him with you."

"He was bored. I was trying on hats and he asked me for candy. I told him that I'd buy him some as soon as I was finished but…I know how easily children are bored and there was nothing for him to do and he kept asking…" Here she began to cry, the tears coursing down her face. "I gave him a dime. The store is right across the street. It's only a few yards. I told him to watch crossing because of all the people and he never came back. I asked the store clerk and he said he's been so busy—all the drovers in town and such, that he didn't even notice." Here she dropped her face in her hands and sobbed. "I looked all over for him. I went up and down the street—I looked in other stores, asked people and no one's seen him! No one! Oh, where is he? Oh, Adam! We have to find him!"

I dropped to one knee beside the chair. "Miriam, listen to me—listen." I spoke as calmly as I could manage. "I'll go look for him. Sheriff Coffee…" I looked up at Roy and he broke in.

"I'll start lookin' for your boy right now and spread the word. I'll get my deputy out lookin' too. Why he's probably just met up with some other boys and is out playin' on some side street. Why he probably hasn't given the time any thought. Now you just stay calm. Help yourself to coffee." Roy glanced at me and left his office. Miriam and I were alone.

"Do you think he's right?" She clung to my jacket front, wanted me to assure her.

"I'm sure. Either Asher's found some other boys or he's still mad at me and is off pouting somewhere. Now, sit out front on that bench. You'll be able to see if Asher goes back to the hat shop to find you or see him if he comes out of any of the nearby stores."

"Yes, yes, I'll do that." She had pulled a handkerchief out of her reticule and wiped her eyes and face. "I suppose I overreacted. It's just that it's so busy today—so many people."

"Yes." I helped her from the chair and then led her out front to the bench. "I'll go back to the hat shop and then go on from there. You stay here and wait. Promise me. I don't want to lose you in this crowd as well."

She weakly smiled. But I left her to join in the search for Asher. But we never found him that day nor the next and I felt as if my heart had been ripped from my chest and left an open hole. And Miriam turned to stone.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

**The Search**

We searched for two days, looking anywhere and everywhere a small boy might go. Although I didn't tell Miriam or my brothers, I also searched the ditches where people toss their refuse and checked the nearby ponds and creeks to see if anyone had dumped a small body. I looked anywhere and everywhere and each time I found nothing, I didn't know whether to be relieved or agonized at another impasse.

Hoss and Joe stopped at every homesteaders on the western and southern sides of Virginia City—my father and Deputy Foster going north and doing the same. Sheriff Coffee wired the sheriff of Carson City to see if a young boy by the name of Asher Cartwright, almost five with curly black hair and dark eyes, had shown up in anyone's company. The eastern side of the Ponderosa was vast but I covered all I could, calling out Asher's name until I was hoarse. All of us met back in town but no one had anything—not a trace—no child's boot or clothing. No one asked had seen a child. There was nothing. He had just disappeared. I didn't know where else to look anymore and I hadn't seen Miriam since Asher's disappearance so I wearily went home until the morning—Hoss and I planned to meet up to continue the search with dogs.

I walked into the dark house and Miriam was sitting by the fire. She wasn't doing anything that I could see, put down no knitting or darning or even a book. She slowly turned—her face hopeful. She rose and looked at me, questioning me.

"Nothing. I found nothing and…we met back in town and so far, no trace of him." She sat back down, staring into the fire. "Miriam…" I didn't know what to say but I knew I wanted comforting and I imagined so did she. I had hoped when I came home that she would run into my arms but she just sat stiffly. At first I was angry but then, suddenly I understood; she was in a prison of her own making and kept everyone else locked out. She wouldn't share with me.

I hadn't shaved for so long and I stank and was filthy and hungry and exhausted. My eyes burned from lack of sleep and my spirit was beaten down. Tomorrow I'd start again but I was so weary I'd almost fallen asleep in the saddle. But Miriam just sat—her face unreadable.

"Miriam, I haven't eaten in almost two days. Is there anything in the kitchen?"

"What?' She looked over at me, not seeming to understand.

"Nothing, Miriam, nothing." I took off my gun belt and left it and my hat on the chair by the door. Usually I put my gun out of reach of Asher but it didn't matter that night. I went into the kitchen and the plate of cold biscuits still sat on the small kitchen table. I looked around. The coffee pot was cold and I gingerly touched the stove-it was cold. I wondered if Miriam had eaten the past two days and what she had done to pass the time to keep from losing her mind to worry. Even I, as I looked for my boy, had to keep from screaming out my pain and fear and cursing God for what had happened.

I grabbed up a biscuit and it was stale and dry but I ate it anyway. Then I fired up the stove, thinking the wood box needed filling. That was one of Asher's few chores. Every day he was to pick up the smaller pieces of chopped wood and bring them in for the kitchen wood box. And he knew to be wary of wood scorpions and spiders that might be crawling among the stack, certain not to bring them inside or to have them bite him. And I remembered the first time he saw a scorpion—he had been about three and was screaming in terror as it moved through the dirt. I had gone running and scooped him up. As I held him he pointed at the scorpion with its curved fanged tail, and I crushed it under my boot heel.

I made a pot of coffee and sat down at the table; I didn't want to stand anymore, didn't want to think anymore. And then Miriam came in.

"I'll fix you something," she said. The sound of her voice was odd—as if a stranger was speaking through her. I said nothing but just watched as she pulled out a bowl, the flour, salt and baking powder, and quickly made a batch of biscuits. Once they were in the oven, she sliced some bacon and then fried it. The smells made my stomach ache with hunger. Once the bacon was removed, she quickly made a gravy and served me a plate of bacon, biscuits and gravy.

Once she had placed a mug of coffee before me, she asked, "Is there anything else?"

"Sit with me while I eat, will you?"

She hesitated but sat and I noticed that her eyes were hollow, her skin almost gray. We said nothing and I began to eat. At first my stomach rebelled against the saltiness of the bacon gravy and I paused. But the nausea passed so I continued to eat.

"I want you to stay at the Ponderosa," I said between bites. "You shouldn't be here alone and I'm going out to search again with Hoss."

"Asher might come home. He might ask someone to bring him home and I wanted to be here." She looked at the tablecloth and traced the pattern of vines and roses with her finger. "You don't expect him to be found, do you? At least not found…"

"Miriam…" I finished chewing and swallowed. Although I'd prayed constantly for the safe return of my son even as I went about searching with a heavy heart, I didn't expect anyone to find him and I had also searched for freshly-dug piles of dirt that might serve as small grave. But I couldn't voice my fear and I was relieved Miriam hadn't as well; to say the words might make them true.

"I should have made him stay with me," Miriam said without any expression-just as a fact.

I put down my knife and fork. "Miriam, It's not your fault. Please…" I reached out for her hand and it was cold.

"It is my fault. I just want him home." She stood and began to pace the kitchen. That must have been what she had been doing—having panic episodes like the one I was seeing. She began to breathe heavily and then clapped her hands over her mouth as if to hold in a scream.

"Miriam!" I stood and tried to pull her to me; we were both worn down beyond human endurance with worry and fear—but she pushed me away and turned her back. Why she refused my proffered comfort, I didn't know. Did she blame me as much as I blamed myself? Was she letting me know that if Asher wasn't found, she was leaving. I didn't know if I could bear both losses—losing my son would be devastating enough but losing her as well—I wanted to slam my head against the wall.

By pure force of will, I recovered my balance and kept my voice even. "We'll find him. Tomorrow morning, Hoss and I are going to Carson City to borrow Rance Howard's best hunting dogs—he breeds them. I mainly came back home to get a shirt or trousers of Asher's, something with his scent." She said nothing, didn't seem to realize I hadn't told the whole truth. I hadn't said that I wanted to see her. She had comforted me once when I lost my wife—my first wife—and now I desperately needed her again. "You need to get some sleep." I walked over to the high cupboard where we kept the glass vial of laudanum pills. I tapped one into my hand. "Take this." I held it out to her. "It'll let you sleep."

"No…something might…I don't want to dream." She held herself tightly as if afraid she was going to crumble in front of me.

"Could any dream be worse than this reality?" I still held out the pill. She reached out a small hand and took it from me. I pumped a glass of water and handed it to her and she obediently swallowed the laudanum. I stood alone and she walked out and I could barely hear her light tread on the stairs. I dropped back down in my chair, my appetite gone. I left the second half-eaten biscuit, the gravy now cold and unappetizing. I needed to sleep but I had the same fear that Miriam did—would my dreams be terrifying, full of horrors that brewed in the deep recesses of my mind? I placed my head on my arms and I must have fallen asleep because soon the sun came slanting in the kitchen window and woke me. I was disoriented and for just a moment-free of worry—until the fear reared up again and drove me on.

~ 0 ~

The dogs we'd borrowed—offered to pay for but Rance Howard declined our money—kept their noses to the ground. I didn't have much faith as there was no starting point. We couldn't start at my property and so we had no choice but to take the dogs to town and start them at the milliner's. But all the scents distracted them and they more or less went in circles; they would go out into the street and then turn in confusion, returning to the hat shop. Hoss suggested we start at the edge of town and move out from there.

"But that only works if Asher was on foot."

"Adam, we gotta try it—ain't got much choice, do we?" I must have looked broken—since that's how I felt, as if my mind wouldn't function. I had been through war and survived Andersonville but the fear that haunted me then was nothing like this. I remembered what Miriam had said early on when we initially searched the town, "I keep thinking he must be afraid…oh, Adam, I can't bear it!" I kept pushing that thought from my mind but like the tide, it kept returning.

Everyone in town knew by then that my son was missing. I could tell by their sympathetic looks and the offers to keep their eyes open. I tried to sound appreciative but I wanted to say, "Where were you when my son was taken? What help were you then?" But they could ask me the same thing. I should have taken him with me no matter what chore I had to do. He was my son and I should have taken responsibility.

I knew Hoss was watching me closely. I could only imagine what my father had said to him. More than likely, "Look out for Adam. Too much grief addles a man, even one as strong as your brother. If you find anything…I don't know wat he'll do. I don't know wat I'll do." I knew that my father and the rest of my family was as distressed as I was—and Miriam.

"Adam, I can only try to imagine what you must be goin' through. If anything ever happened to one of my boys, well, I can only…" He pursed his lips. "Let's take the dogs to the east road and start from there."

So we did and the dogs ran about, their noses to the ground, and bayed to one another and Joe said later that was the only way he found us; he heard the dogs.

"Asher's home." Joe was grinning broadly, his eyes glistening. "He was brought to your place this morning and Miriam brought him to the Ponderosa. I was just about to take out searching again when one of the ranch hands came and told me."

It seemed as if the sun came out from behind a shadow; the eclipse was over. I wanted to drop to my knees and give thanks but first I had to know. "Is he all right? Was he hurt?"

"Not from what I was told—he's just fine, happy to be home and chattin' away. Now you get going and see your boy and give him a hug from us. Hoss and me'll see to the dogs." Both my brothers were grinning and that's how I left them.

When I arrived at the Ponderosa, my father came out and I dismounted even before my horse had stopped.

"He's all right, Adam. Hop Sing's feeding him cookies and milk and Miriam won't let him out of her sight."

"What happened to him? Where's he been?"

"I'll let Miriam tell you firsthand."

I raced into the house and Asher turned around when I entered the kitchen. Seeing him, his small figure sitting at the table, milk on his upper lip, made me want to cry in relief. My boy was back and from the looks of it, unscathed.

"Hi, Pa," he said excitedly. "Guess where I been."

I glanced at Miriam. She was blank—I couldn't read her expression.

"Asher, we were all worried." I kneeled down and caressed his dark head, felt again the softness of his curls, saw the beauty of his eyes and mouth. My love for him was so overwhelming I feared it would kill me.

I kissed Asher's round cheek and he shrugged slightly away; he never was one to sit still for kisses or any overt show of affection from me but I imagined my rough three-days'-growth of beard and my smell were enough to cause anyone to shrink away. He continued to eat the cookies and reached out for the glass of milk—he had to hold it with both hands in order to raise it to his mouth.

"Pa, I got to eat all the candy I wanted. A man bought a huge bag and said it was mine and he was s'possed to watch me while you and Momma were busy. And we stayed in a cabin and it had some mice and a cob web in the corner. The mice came out at night and one of the men, Pa, he shot one of them. The other man, he said it wasn't no mouse but a rat. But it was big and had a long tail and Mr. Brown, he said it was a mouse 'cause mice got really long tails and Mr. White, he said that he didn't know shit about mice or anything else. They cussed, Pa, real bad. They said bad words to each other all the time. But I got to ride a horse all by myself and it was a big horse! I got to ride it in circles! And we played games! I got to play horseshoes—horse shoes are really heavy and Mr. Brown helped me 'cause they're so heavy. And I played a game that's called Mumble peg—you got this knife…I know I'm not s'posed to play with knives but Mr. Brown said it was fine 'cause he was watching me and I didn't cut myself at all. And we had a fire outside and cooked on it. But I wanted to go home after a while and they kept saying that I had to stay a few days 'cause you and momma went on a trip."

"Nobody hurt you. did they?"

"No, Pa. I had fun."

"Good. I'm glad but, Asher…" I wanted to tell him to never go off with anyone else again but I decided later would be better. But I couldn't stop touching him.

"Adam," my father said and motioned for me to follow him. When we were in the dining room, he pulled me aside even more. "I sent someone for Roy. I've been trying to get information from Asher but he only wants to talk about how much fun he had. He wasn't harmed—I'm sure of that and the only names he knows are Mr. Brown and Mr. White. I'm sure those aren't their names."

"Why did they take him and who returned him? I want to talk to Miriam. Would you get her."

He did and soon she stood before me, the two of us alone.

"Okay, Miriam, tell me. And if you had anything to do with this…"

"Do you really think I would harm him?"

"I don't know what to think. Who brought him home?"

"I've never seen the man before. He rode up with Asher sitting in front of him. He handed Asher down and told me to send him inside. I did as he told me. Then he said he had a message for you. He said to tell you to drop any investigation into the Horseshoe mine's investors. If you didn't, well, they took Asher once and they could take him again and next time, you wouldn't get him back. Then he rode off."

"Is that all he said?"

"Yes. That's all. And then I brought Asher here."

"Baxter is behind this—that goddamn son of a bitch! I'll kill him."

"Adam, don't rush to judgment on Mr. Baxter…" She stopped, her voice faded, and Miriam fainted dead away. I barely caught her before she hit the floor.

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

**Cold Revenge**

After she fainted and I lay her on the settee, Miriam was out for less than a minute but it was enough to send my father and Hop Sing into a panic. Hop Sing came running with a glass of water and a cool cloth for her head; my father chaffed her wrist. Asher clung to my pants' leg, crying and asking what was wrong with "Momma", would she be all right. And then, when Miriam finally came around, Asher threw himself on her and she stroked his head, comforting him and assuring him she was going to be fine; she just needed to eat, she told him and he raised a tear-stained face and kissed her cheek, saying he would bring her a cookie. He scuttled back to the kitchen.

Miriam slowly sat up and there must have been something in my face because Hop Sing and my father peeled away, both going back to the kitchen. Only Asher ran back in and handed a butter cookie to Miriam.

"Thank you, Asher," she said.

He crawled up on the couch beside her but I wanted her alone so I picked him up and stood him back on the rug. I crouched and held his waist so we would be eye to eye. I composed my expression to one of benign concern.

"Son, I want to talk to Miss Miriam alone, okay? Why don't you go back in the kitchen? Momma'll be there as soon as we've finished talking."

"Okay, Pa." He hurried back to the kitchen and then I stood and looked at Miriam.

"What is it, Miriam? There's something else, isn't there?"

"I didn't think I should tell you…the man also said that 'they' didn't know how they were going to do to get the message across to you, whether it was going to be by taking me and enjoying themselves—he smiled at me then—but when they saw Asher alone, they couldn't let the opportunity pass. And, Adam, he implied they might even decide to kill you to shut you up."

"And just what is it you expect me to do, Miriam?"

"Nothing. I expect—no, I hope you'll do nothing. Just let the whole matter drop. It's not worth it."

"They took my boy and you expect me to do nothing! They suggest they might even take you and rape you and you expect me to do nothing about it!" I knew I had raised my voice, was almost yelling and my mind went to the kitchen and what Asher was hearing so I lowered my voice, composed myself. "Baxter had to be the one who told them, who let his backers know what was coming. Now that Asher is home, I can let Roy know what happened and he can start an investigation. What just happened is the tip of what's going on, Miriam—these men have to be stopped. And you expect me to just sit on my ass and do nothing. To live in fear of harm to my family. I won't."

"Think about it, Adam…there were two men who said they witnessed the cave-in that killed Reese Murray, weren't there?"

"Yes, they were traveling to Carson City…" If I hadn't been so upset, I might have made the connection sooner. Two men. They might be the same two men who had taken Asher. They may very well be the muscle for Forest Investment. If they were, and more than likely they were, the names they had given to Roy years ago were aliases just as Brown and White were. I knew what Miriam was suggesting; they were hired killers and capable of much more, or worse things and had only stated with the mildest action they could take.

"Miriam, I can't just walk away from this. I have to strike back. This may be the only chance I have so I have to take it and make it good. You may not be able to understand but I have to do this."

"What about Asher?"

"He's safe here and so are you. Just stay at the Ponderosa and keep a tight hold on him."

"That's not what I mean. How will he do without a father?"

It's odd how the mind works. Lines from _Macbeth_ echoed in my head—lines between a mother, Lady Macduff, and her son before they are slaughtered by Macbeth's brutes—"How wilt thou do for a father?" "Nay, how will you do for a husband."

If I were killed, what would Asher do without a father, but Miriam, how would she manage? Would she think of the same dismissive answer that lady Macduff gave? "Why I can buy me twenty at any market!"

"Asher would manage without me. He has you and my father and brothers. And as for you managing, well you could just marry again."

"You are cold-hearted, aren't you?" She rose from the settee and I reached out to steady her but she managed to find her feet without my help. "I know it won't make any difference to you since your famous Cartwright pride has been injured, but…I'm with child. So you wouldn't just be leaving Asher without a father."

"Miriam, I…" Suddenly things were different. I reached for her but she sidestepped and jerked her arm away. I had made a mess of the whole thing but even with the knowledge that a child was on the way, I couldn't let the matter of the Horseshoe mine and Asher's abduction go unavenged. I couldn't. I would never have peace if I did. "Try to understand…"

"I can't, Adam, but I suppose that doesn't matter. You've never needed my understanding." She walked slowly into the kitchen and I thought again about my actions. Could I just let it drop, allow myself to be intimidated by the threat against my family? When I destroyed the threat, when I brought down those who had done this thing, only then would I be able to live without fear of Asher or Miriam or anyone else in my family being harmed. I couldn't go through my days living in a constant state of fear.

I saddled up a fresh horse and asked one of the ranch hands to take care of mine. I had ridden my horse hard over the past few days but for this, I needed a fresh horse. I had no idea what was in store and I wanted to be able to take off after anyone—whoever that might be. You may be thinking that I wanted a fresh horse in case I had to ride hard to save my own ass but that wasn't the reason at all. Things had come down to me or them and I wasn't backing down.

I rode to Virginia City taking the road that led up to Baxter's house. He didn't work, held no job so I was certain he was home. A few yards before I was in earshot of the house, I tied off my horse. I approached the house from the side and raised the door knocker twice—dropping it heavily both times. Then I pressed myself against the wall in case Baxter or Lorelei were cautious enough to look out the window first.

I waited and the door slowly opened and I saw Baxter's face start to peek out. I stepped out, swiveled and kicked the door fully open. I heard an "Oof!" and knew the oak door had hit Baxter hard. I stepped inside and he was staggering backward and holding his head. Before he could even see who it was, I grabbed his shirtfront and slammed a fist into his jaw. His feet slipped out from under him and I released him and he dropped onto the Aubusson rug. The pain that radiated through my fist gave me an immense sense of satisfaction; Baxter must hurt twice as much. I wondered if his blood, the blood I was about to spill, would be able to be cleaned off the decorative roses and Fleurs de Lis that danced across the thick carpet.

I grabbed Baxter again, pulling him up by his shirtfront and smashed his face again and blood sprayed from his nose. I had broken it and the knowledge spurred me on. I hit him again and again and then I sensed a movement on my right and heard the draw of a hammer and the rotation of a gun barrel. It was Lorelei holding a .45 and, aiming at me. I dropped Harry and faced her, breathing heavily. Harry Baxter lay moaning, slowly rocking side to side and a gurgling sound came with ever groan he made.

"Get out of our home!" she said. "I'll shoot you if you hit him again!"

I raised my hands and then looking down at Harry, I kicked him in the ribs—it was satisfactory to hear him cry out from the sharp pain.

"I'll shoot you—I swear it!" I watched Lorelei; she was shaking and I wondered if she really knew how to use the thing, knew how to aim. People could often miss even at close range, especially if the gun kicked.

"I'm not leaving without Harry; I'm taking him to Roy Coffee's. My son was taken, but I guess you know that, and your husband set it in motion. He's going to tell who hired the men, who wanted it done."

"I'm sorry about your boy," she said, still holding the gun far too high to really hit me but I got the impression she was scared enough to shoot. I don't like stray bullets whizzing around my head. "But he had nothing to do with it. I hope they find your boy soon."

"My son's back home, unharmed, but two men took him and they left a message for me. Your husband's responsible." Baxter continued to moan.

"Harry had nothing to do with it."

"No?" I said stepping closer. "I came to see him about the mine and a few days later my son is taken. The message for me was to quit any investigation into the mine. Why, Lorelei? Why would they tell me that if not that your husband told them? And what about Reese? Haven't you ever wondered what he was doing in the mine all alone? A banker who knew nothing about mining, who had stolen the money from the bank to finance his investment. Maybe he wanted out of the mess, wanted to confess to the law because he knew the audit was almost finished. Reese wasn't a dishonest man—but a desperate man and I think he wanted to clear the air, help the officials, but the Forest Investment Group—a smokescreen for some shady dealings, I'm sure—wouldn't allow it, couldn't allow it so Reese had to die. And the killers had to make sure the body wouldn't be found easily. And isn't it convenient that two drifters witnessed it—just as there were two men who took my son?"

"Harry's hurt badly—look what you did!" She was becoming shrill, her hands shaking so badly she was having trouble keeping ahold of the gun.

I spread my hands, palms out and stepped back. "I'll see Harry gets help but I need to take him to the sheriff. Both of us need answers, Lorelei—both of us need to know what really happened to Reese."

Lorelei lowered the gun. "Get the buggy. He needs to see Doc Martin before he talks to anyone."

~ 0 ~

Harry and I both needed to see the doctor. Doc Martin stitched up Baxter's split lip and placed a strip if plaster across his smashed nose—whether it would heal properly or not allowing Baxter to eventually breathe through it again, the doctor couldn't say; at the moment, he had to breathe through his mouth and both his eyes were swollen-purple bruises covered his cheeks. He also had two broken ribs from my boot in his side. Lorelei Baxter sat stiffly watching, her arms crossed below the shelf of her bosom. Her face was set in the permanent scowl that was her constant expression.

As for me, Doc Martin wrapped my hand. He couldn't say if it was broken or not since it was so swollen but implied I deserved a broken hand after the hurting I had put on Baxter. I said Baxter was lucky to still be alive after what he'd done.

"Don't you think that's for the law to decide?" Paul Martin asked me as he worked on the bandaging.

"I know he's guilty. I don't need the law to decide for me. Besides, leaving it to the law would have denied me the extreme satisfaction of smashing his face into a bloody mess." Paul just frowned at me disapprovingly. I smiled. "You hoping he presses charges against me?" I asked.

Paul huffed and stepped away to clean up after tying off my bandage. "I don't like to any human damaged the way Harry Baxter is. As to what happens to you—I'm just a doctor. I try to put back together what men tear apart. And the human body—such a bad plan, actually. We have so few inherent defenses—so vulnerable."

I wasn't going to argue. "I'm going home after I see Roy. I'll leave the wagon for Mrs. Baxter." Paul turned to say something to me but he stopped. So I left.

My hand was throbbing; I'd had a hard time hitching up the Baxter's buggy but pain often has to be worked through. I looked down at my hand. Paul had washed the dried blood off and we were both pleased to see none of the blood had been mine. But my shirtsleeve and the front of my shirt and pants were covered with blood spatter. I was almost to Roy's office where I planned to sit and wait and nurse my hand. Since Pa had sent for Roy, I knew it would be awhile. I wondered if the small flask of whiskey was still kept in the bottom drawer of Roy's desk. I wanted nothing more than a mug of Roy's hot, bitter coffee with a slug of Kentucky whiskey—good for whatever ails you. But before I could open the office door, I heard my name called in Roy's distinctive voice. So I waited while he pulled up to the hitching post in front of the jail and dismounted.

"You made good time," I said.

"I met your pa on the road. Told me you were heading out to the Baxters so I turned right around and headed back. Went to the Baxters and when I stepped inside, well, it looked like a murder scene only there was no body. Where're Lorelei and Harry?"

"Over at the doc's. I'm glad you're here. I want to file a complaint."

"Oh?" Roy said. "You going to complain that Harry Baxter broke your hand," he indicated my wrapped hand, "by repeatedly running into your fist?"

I just smiled. "No. He conspired with the Forest Investment Group to silence me by abducting my son."

"You have proof of that?"

"I will. Harry Baxter's going to talk."

"You leave his mouth intact? Is it operable?"

I shrugged. "More or less. But Lorelei, I think she has some questions for him as well. Many questions. I think she'll help."

"Now why would she want to do that?"

"Let's just say I put a flea in her ear." Roy raised his brows quizzically. "Hey, Roy, how about a pot of coffee and a dram of that smooth Kentucky whiskey of yours?"

"I suppose I could muster it. That is while I take your statement. After I go see the Baxter's though, don't be surprised iffen I have to ride out to the Ponderosa and arrest you as well."

"Now you know you're always welcome on the Ponderosa—warrant or not. Come during the dinner hour. I think Hop Sing plans to roast a pig." Roy didn't smile; just shook his head.

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

**Epilogue**

Harry Baxter was a font of information. It took a week of recuperation before he could move his jaw well enough to be intelligible and although Roy couldn't legally divulge all the details, it seems that Harry Baxter had been depositing money for the Forest Investment Group that came from their San Francisco activities in prostitution and the drug trade out of China. The purpose of his buying ownership in the mine was to prevent any further investigation into the Horseshoe Mine. It seems the Forest Group was highly diversified, buying and selling young Chinese girls to anyone who had the money, mostly brothel owners who like to "resell" young virgins. And most Chinese females were small in stature and could pass for much less than their years. But after being used for so many years, they aged and would be tossed out to try to find some way to survive in the strange land.

The young Chinese girls had been sold by their parents who were desperate for money as China was going through another change, the Taiping Rebellion which seemed never-ending, and were led to believe that their daughters would become wives to rich Americans. I doubted that few actually believed it when they sold their daughters, but it helped assuage the conscience of a parent who found daughters worthless in their society.

The Forest Group also supplied opium to the various purveyors of the substance, the owners of the opium dens. Although not illegal, the opium users were becoming a problem, needing more and more money to purchase a night sleeping on a filthy cot and smoking the substance. In the parts of town, crime was rampant. And the constables would often find a thin, grasshopper-like corpse in an alley, obviously a victim of opium overdose.

Roy turned the whole matter over to federal investigators who quickly arrived in Virginia City since the bank was involved. It seemed that since the new government had been established, the federal agencies were taking over more and more, expanding their grip on what used to be handled by the territory or the state but besides the downside of having no control, I could also see benefits. The world was changing quickly. Roy said he was relieved not to have to deal with the emerging crimes and charges, but I think he was insulted when the federal investigators cut him out and carried on in secrecy.

It had been a month since Asher had been taken and the investigation into the Horseshoe Mine was still ongoing—all except what had happened to Reese Murray. Just the day before, Roy and I were there when the body was recovered.

Roy had handled the removal of the tons of rock and I had supervised the replacement of the buckled and snapped shoring; It was slow-going but the dynamite charge hadn't been as strong as the perpetrators had intended. I found unexploded charges; it seemed the first rocks and debris had smothered the fuse. The government engineer who "supervised" us in excavating the cave-in, much to my resentment of his arrogant, high-handed manner, had concluded that dynamite had been used to bring down the ceiling of stone; said he had found debris that indicated it. I held up the unexploded dynamite, the four sticks bound with twine and stated I had reached the same conclusion. He asked me if that bundle couldn't be from previous blast, intimating I had been sloppy in expanding the mine. It was all I could do to keep from telling him to shove the bundle up his ass with a lit fuse. But he told me that he knew what he was doing; explosives were his specialty. I shrugged it off although my fist itched. Although I had to agree with the engineer's conclusion, I doubted his "proof". I had found the indisputable proof and that was enough for me.

Once the partially decomposed body of Reese Murray was pulled from the mine, anyone could see from the crushed skull fragments that a bullet had passed through the brain and shattered the skull even though the hair still clung in patches. Fitting the shards together was like putting together a puzzle and in his back room, Paul Martin made the skull almost whole again. He pieced together the skeleton on his surgical table and the mass of crushed and broken bones told the story of a man being practically pulverized.

Lorelei Baxter wanted to bury the bones of her long-dead husband, but she would be unable to until the investigation and the trial was over. After his partial recovery, Baxter was sitting in one of Roy's jail cells waiting to be transported to San Francisco as a federal witness against the men who were the Forest Investment Group. He planned to testify that he knew about the murder of Murray and that he had tipped the group off to my renewed investigation and excavation of the Horseshoe Mine that would have revealed the murder of Murray and caused even more trouble. I had to be stopped and threatening my family was the initial attempt to shut me up and make me go away.

And Lorelei Baxter visited her husband every day, bringing him dinner and sitting with him while he ate. She gave all appearances of a loving and devoted wife. I considered that perhaps she did love Baxter and he, her, as Roy said the Baxters kissed upon her arrival and upon her departure and Harry Baxter hated to see his wife leave, actually wept one time according to Roy.

Asher, Miriam and I were still at the Ponderosa; I didn't want them alone at our house while I was gone during the day. Not until the whole goddamn mess was ended would I feel comfortable with leaving them alone. And I wasn't sure I'd be comfortable even then.

And Miriam was just beginning to swell with our child. Asher took the news well, unlike what I'd feared. I explained that he would soon have a brother or sister; he hoped for a boy. "Then I'll have a brother like Willis and Jessie—right, Pa?"

"That's right, son. You'll be the oldest too like I'm the oldest brother to Hoss and Joe."

Asher seemed to like the idea of having someone subordinate, someone he could order about, so I tried to play up the companionship aspect, talking about all the things he would be able to teach his new brother or sister.

"Like fishing," I said. "You'll be able to show how to bait a hook and pull in a fish. And when you get older, you'll be able to help with the horses and cattle nd your little brother will be filling the wood box." And Asher grinned. He was excited and could hardly wait for the newest Cartwright to be born. I had leaned on the child being male—for Asher's sake. I secretly hoped for a girl.

As for Miriam and me, the breach between us took time to heal. She never raised the subject of my suspicion that she had anything to do with Asher's abduction again; I think she understood my stare of mind at the time. But the fact that I didn't buckle under the threat of future harm may have caused her to think she and Asher meant less to me than my pride. But it wasn't pride that made me go after Baxter and the others—it was the need to maintain a balance in life. I couldn't live the rest of my days in fear of reprisal.

And when I came home that evening after beating Baxter, my hand bandaged, Miriam almost gave me sympathy. Almost—but she didn't. All she said was that I was fortunate I had only had my hand broken. But in the washhouse, as I tried to shave with my left hand while I soaked in the tub, she came in and silently shaved me, my head back on the curved rim of the tub and my throat exposed. I swallowed deeply a few times watching her face as she pulled the razor over my throat. And when we went to bed that night, my hand throbbed and I couldn't sleep. Miriam silently left the bed—I was sure she'd had enough of my restlessness and gone to sleep elsewhere—but came back with a laudanum pill which I took. And just before I lost my grip and slipped into the pain-free, dark depths of the drug, I felt Miriam's lips on my throat and her hand slip down to arouse me, to ready me. I was on the edge, fighting to stay aware as I felt her wet softness as she moved on top of me, felt her velvet smoothness envelop me and then the swelling and bursting of all that was pent-up inside me, all the pain, all the fear, all the anger that I had carried, she took inside herself. And then I faded away.

Although we never discussed that night, she and I knew that she had sought me out to please her, that she had a carnal side beyond just being the passive partner. A peace came between us with the understanding that we were now partners and had created a child between us. The child to come sealed the agreement that Asher had started.

After Asher had been tucked in and Pa would go off to bed at night, I would read or work on the ranch books and Miriam would mend Asher's dungarees or socks and the silence between us was comfortable. One night she was letting out the waists of a few dresses. I admired her beauty. Miriam had become rounder, lush, even more desirable as she filled out.

It was the night before Harry Baxter was to be picked up by federal agents and taken under guard to testify in San Francisco.

"After the trial, I think we can move back to our house," I said. I waited for her response.

Finally she said, "How long do you think the trial will take?" Miriam didn't look up, just continued stitching.

"A few weeks—maybe a month."

"What do you think will happen to Baxter?"

"I'm not sure. I don't know if he'll be allowed or even want to come back here. He may be hidden away by the government as part of the deal he made but I'm not privy to that—neither is Roy Coffee. Lorelei Baxter may be without any husband."

"Some husbands are best shed."

I felt the remark was odd. Especially since she said it to me. I could understand a chatting group of women in a quilting bee laughing and complaining about their husbands but I didn't expect the remark from her. I watched her, her face as pure as the Madonna as she deftly moved the needle through the fabric.

"Miriam," I said, "look at me."

She put her work in her lap and looked at me. The firelight illuminated her face and as it flickered and changed, so did the planes and curves of her face, disguising her expression.

"You've never talked about Clifford."

"Why would I?"

"Just…did you love him?" I waited and she picked up the fabric pooled in her lap and over one side of the chair, and started to sew again.

"At first I did—I loved him very much. He told me of the wonderful life we would have together, how happy we would be. And he was good to me. But the land he bought—he knew nothing about buying land and it was a mistake that swallowed all our money. He then became angry about everything—everything, no matter how small or petty. And when things didn't work out, when crops wouldn't grow or the rain didn't come or the clock stopped because I forgot to wind it, well, he took it out on me. I was glad when he signed up for the army; he'd be gone and if her was a casualty of war, there'd be a government draft for me. But Clifford returned and he was himself again—maybe eve worse. The first night back, he slapped me because I didn't have much food in the house. I wasn't sorry when he died. It was a relief.

"So to answer your question, Adam, no. By the time Clifford died, I didn't love him." We said nothing more about her dead husband.

The next afternoon, I took Miriam into town. I wanted to find out if the federal agents had yet taken Harry Baxter. Miriam was to see Doctor Martin. She was almost in her 4th month and I told her it would be a good idea just to have him assure us that all was well.

We were in the buckboard when I saw Roy rushing back to his office. He looked worried, upset.

"Roy!" I called out. I pulled the buckboard over to the side of the street and set the brake, leaping down and moving around the front to meet Roy.

"Mornin', Mrs. Cartwright," Roy said tipping his hat to Miranda. "Good to see you and congratulations on the coming happy event."

"Thank you." Miriam smiled graciously. She looked particularly beautiful that morning and I had taken her, luxuriating in her body with all its changes and delights.

"Roy," I said, stopping him from more conversation. Roy loved to pass the time with a lovely woman and Miriam fit that mold. "Have they come for Baxter yet?"

"Yeah, but not the government agents—Dr. Martin and the undertaker did."

"What? What happened?" I was glad that I hadn't yet taken Miriam to Paul's office; I had no idea what might be going on there.

"Well," Roy said as he leaned in, "Mrs. Baxter brought him dinner like she has every single night he's been in my jail. And it smelled so good I was tempted to ask her for a small bowl. Pinto beans with chunks of ham and home-made bread. The whole office smelled like a good, homey restaurant.

"Well, it got late and I finally told her she had to leave and she asked if she could come back in the morning to say goodbye but I told her it'd be better if she said goodbye now; things tomorrow would be too rushed. So she hugged him and he was pathetic. That man began to cry. You'd think it'd be her crying, possibly losing another husband and all and having him risk his life as a witness against such men. But it was him sobbing like a baby.

"Anyway, about an hour or so after, Baxter started cramping, thought the beans he'd eaten were giving him the cramps but it wasn't that. Soon he was groaning and saying he needs the doctor. I just brushed it off until he vomited. I didn't want to clean any of it up so I fetched Paul and by the time we got back, he'd started vomiting blood. He was howling like a poisoned coyote—high pitched wails. And then he started…" Roy looked up at Miriam who had turned her head as if she wasn't listening.

Roy lowered his voice. "He started shitting blood as well—bleeding from both ends. I've never seen nothing like it. We couldn't get him to Paul's laboratory so we just moved him to another cot and Paul told me not to clean anything up; it might be contagious—some type of influenza-but by the time Baxter died, Paul decided he must have been poisoned and it had to be Mrs. Baxter who did it. Was no other body around that day and I knew it wasn't me."

"Lorelei poisoned him? But why would she…." And then I knew why. He had been part of the men who had killed Reese, who had killed her husband. I guess she wanted to see him dead at her hands.

"I don't know, Adam. But I got to go see her and ask her for the rest of the beans and ham. If she's thrown it out, well, I'm going to have to scrape it off the ground. Paul wants to examine it."

"Good luck, Roy. But Lorelei may be too clever to be caught. Women amaze us all the time, don't they?"

I took Miriam home and headed back to town. It seemed that Lorelei still had half a pot of beans and ham son the stove and willingly handed it to Roy, but not before she tearfully spooned herself a bowl of cold beans and sat down and ate it in front of him, suffering no ill effects while she and Roy talked. He told me that she wept bitterly when he told her that Harry had died, although he doubted the sincerity of her "crocodile tears". Nevertheless, Paul could find nothing in the concoction that was poison. So Roy had to drop any further investigation.

That evening Miriam had cooked dinner for us all; Hop Sing was staying the night in town as a relative's daughter was giving birth and family was armed with red envelopes of money and good luck food. So after a meal of Miriam's bean soup, she and I sat in the calm of the evening on the porch and while she patched the knee of a pair of Asher's dungarees, I apprised her of the investigation into Harry Baxter's death—actually the fact that there wouldn't be one.

"And although both Roy and Paul Martin are certain he was poisoned; they just can't figure out how she did it. It wasn't a laudanum overdose; seems like cholera but he couldn't have caught it in the jail. They're baffled."

I glanced at Miriam. She remained composed but I thought I detected a small smile about her lips.

"What is it, Miriam?"

"Thera are simple ways of ridding oneself of a husband that all women know, ways that can't be proved or detected."

"Oh?" I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. "Such as…"

"A few bad mushroom in the gravy. Laudanum slipped into the evening cup of coffee; when the husband falls sleeps, the wife just presses a pillow against his face until he suffocates."

"Lorelei couldn't have done any of that? When she left, Baxter was alive and well. Besides, she ate some of the same food—ham and beans-that she'd brought Harry right in front of Roy and she was fine—no ill effects."

"Men are so unimaginative." Miriam shook her head. "A few boiled castor beans in Harry's serving would do it." She continued to darn Asher's dungarees. "Asher's growing so fast, he needs more clothes already. And his boots are too small; he says they hurt. We need to go to town and buy another pair for him."

Miriam was calm but a chill ran through me. Castor beans. A few cooked castor beans would do it, would kill a man within a few hours. I drew in my breath. Clifford had died shortly after returning from war—from a bloody flux. It was suspected to be cholera from the bad water on their property, that the outhouse refuse had leeched into the water. But Miriam never became ill.

And Clifford's favorite dish had been Miriam's bean soup, my favorite meal, as well. I swore to myself then and there, that I would never underestimate Miriam again—or any other woman in my life. They may seem helpless and frail, but in actuality, a wife controlled all aspects of her husband's life—and their world.

I considered I would make an effort to be a better husband to Miriam and a better father to Asher and the child to come and not because I feared Miriam would poison me. But I did know from then on, I'd be a little uneasy every time I was served up bean soup.

~ Finis ~


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